GOING FOR THE DOCTOR.
"In God's name, then, take your own way," said Christian; "and,
for my sake, let never man hereafter limit a woman in the use of
her tongue; since he must make it amply up to her, in allowing
her the privilege of her own will. Who would have thought it?"
PEVERIL OF THE PEAK.
Three years and more have passed away since we left Matthew the pikeman
counting the stones in Goody Grey's box. Many changes have occurred
since then, the greatest of all has fallen on his own cottage--Matthew
has grown a sober man.
But we must go back a little.
We left Jane closing the cottage door, after the singular meeting that
had taken place between her and Goody Grey, on Marks telling the latter
of his sister-in-law's extraordinary fainting fit. When he and his wife
returned to the cottage, Jane was carried up to bed, apparently too weak
to be able to sit up, and there she remained for several weeks, more
crazed than ever to Matthew's fancy, frightening him out of his wits at
times, lest his wife should find out anything about the charm, and
attribute, as he did, his sister-in-law's illness to it. One night his
fears grew to such a pitch, he went and buried the box in the garden,
and waited events in an easier frame of mind. Days passed, and at length
Jane grew better, but strenuously refused to leave her room, and go
below. In vain Mrs. Marks remonstrated, in vain she stormed, Jane was
not to be persuaded, and at length was allowed to do as she pleased. But
suddenly her illness took a turn; she crawled down stairs to dinner, and
one day, to Matthew's intense disgust, resumed her old seat in the
chimney corner.
As the months rolled on the scrubbing and scouring within the cottage
went on more mildly, while Mrs. Marks' strong stout arm grew thinner
and weaker; the brush fell less harshly and severely on the ear, as it
rushed over the table; the high pattens clanked less loudly in the yard;
while the voice grew less shrill, and was no longer heard in loud
domineering tones. The change was gradual; Matthew did not notice it at
first, until just a few weeks before Amy returned to Brampton with her
husband; then the change was unmistakable, the scrubbing and scouring
ceased altogether. Mrs. Marks gave in, and acknowledged she was ill.
How Matthew's conscience smote him then! He knew he had never had the
courage to face Goody Grey with the box still filled with the small
gravel, as when she gave it him, neither had he dared throw the stones
away, lest, in offending the giver, worse disasters would follow; and he
was too superstitious to think Goody Grey would know nothing at all
about it, and believe as he might tell her that he had done as she had
directed. No; he was certain that one word of distrust in his story,
and he should break down altogether. He tried to reason with himself,
and think that the tramping about in all weathers long ago had made his
wife ill; but it would not do, his mind was not to be persuaded, and
always reverted with increased dismay to the box, while his eye
invariably rested upon its snug resting-place under the laurel, as he
passed it on his way out to the gate. Many a time he determined upon
digging up the box, and restoring it to its owner, just as it was: but
when the time for action came, and he drew near the spot, his courage
failed him, and he would pass on, cursing the hour when he had been
tempted to ask the wise woman for the charm which he believed had done
so much evil; while his fear of telling the secret in his tipsy
unconsciousness had done what all Mrs. Marks' storming had failed to
do--made him, for the time being, a sober man. He shunned the "Brampton
Arms" as if the plague dwelt there, and sat in the chimney corner
opposite Jane, gloomy, and fearful almost of his own shadow, while his
sister-in-law's eyes seemed to pierce him through more keenly than ever.
Mrs. Marks had steadily kept her promise, silently and secretly working
with a will to seek out Hodge's son. Like most energetic women, a first
failure did not daunt or dispirit her, it only roused her energies the
more vigorously. She was not to be defeated. The more difficult of
accomplishment the more determined was she, and in the end successful.
She dodged Hodge's "wide-awake" friend, and found Tom; nay more, she
spoke with him, tried to reclaim him; but there she failed--she was not
the sort of woman to win him over. A kind word might have done much, but
that, Mrs. Mark's heart had not for such a reprobate as he. She told him
the truth, the plain hard truth, heaping maledictions on his head unless
he gave up his evil ways, forsook his godless companions, and returned
home. She used no persuasion, no entreaty. Had she spoken to him kindly
of his mother, perhaps his heart might have softened; but Mrs. Marks'
voice came loud and strong, words followed one another fast and
indignantly, so that ere she had well-nigh exhausted all the scorn she
had, his mind was made up, and he obstinately refused to return home,
simply because she desired, nay, commanded him to do so. What! become
the laughing-stock of the whole of Deane? be known and marked in the
village as the vile sinner she denounced him to be? He laughed at her
threats and taunts, and left her, feeling perhaps more hardened than
ever.
Matthew was not far wrong when he tried to persuade himself the walking
about in all weathers--so mysterious to him--had ruined his wife's
health. A pouring steady rain was falling the day of her interview with
Hodge's son, but true to her purpose, she had walked for miles along a
heavy road, and across still damper fields to find him; then, flushed
and heated with her passionate words and subsequent defeat, had started
back again through the same rain, and reached home thoroughly wet
through; then came a violent cold, and from that time her strength
seemed to fail, although unacknowledged to herself, while her limbs lost
their power, and pained her strangely; still she worked on, with the
will to get well, but alas! the strength to do so was gone.
She wrote to Mrs. Hodge advising her to have nothing further to do with
such a good-for-nothing son, but forget him as fast as she could. Mrs.
Marks' letter was not meant unkindly, but she never attempted to lessen
Tom's fault or palliate his conduct; the truth stood out in all its
glaring hideousness. Having no children herself, she knew nothing of a
mother's strong, steadfast love. The knowledge that her son, her
first-born, was with a gang of poachers who had wounded the Squire's
visitor and killed one of the game watchers, threw dismay into the
mother's heart and broke it. She died, begging her husband to still look
for Tom, and reclaim him if possible--a promise her husband felt
impossible of fulfilment, as he, like Mrs. Marks, thought badly of his
son's heart.
Mrs. Marks could scarcely move her limbs at all now, except to creep
down the narrow stairs of a day into the small parlour, where she sat
and scolded to her heart's content, Sarah, the girl who came as a help
now the mistress was ill, following her every movement with her eyes, if
she could not with her feet.
As her sister grew worse, Jane roused herself wonderfully, becoming as
active as before she had been idle, and apparently as sane as she had
been crazy; while as to Matthew, he turned into a model husband, helping
in the work to be done as far as lay in his power, and nursing his sick
wife with a tender solicitude quite foreign to his nature, while she
grumbled at everything and everyone in turn, her eye, as I have said
before, finding out their shortcomings in a moment, and denouncing them
without mercy. But she was ill, must be ill to sit there so quietly and
allow others to scrub down the table or be up to their elbows in the
washing-tub; she deserved their pity and their silence, and they gave
her both.
"There, that will do," said she one day, as Matthew tried to settle the
pillows more comfortably at her back. "I don't think it's near so easy
like as it was before you touched it, but it wouldn't be you if you
didn't want always to have a finger in the pie. Sarah, leave off that
racket among the cups and saucers; what on earth are you at, girl? Are
you trying to break them all? What are you after?"
"I was a-dusting of the shelves, Mum," was the reply.
"Fine dusting, upon my word, and with a corner of your apron, too; be
off and fetch a cloth this moment, such slop-work as that'll never do
here; let me catch you at it again, that's all, or that clatter of the
crockery either, when my head aches and buzzes like as if a thousand
mills was at work in it."
"There, rest quiet, Missus," said Matthew; "it'll be all right
by-and-bye."
"That's as much as you know about it. I tell yer I never felt so bad,
like, in all my life."
"Ain't it most time to take the doctor's stuff?" suggested Matthew,
meekly.
"I'm sick of the medicine, and the doctor too. What good has he done me?
I should like to know. I can't walk no better than I could a month ago.
My limbs is as stiff as ever, and just every bit as painful."
"That comes of them mad walks yer took in all weathers; yer would tramp
about, and it's been t' undoing of yer altogether."
A torrent of words followed this, of which Matthew took no heed, until
she leant back, apparently exhausted, saying, "I feel awful bad. I
wonder whatever in the world ails me?"
"How d'yer feel?" asked her husband, compassionately.
"My head whizzes, and I'm all over in a cold sweat, like; only feel my
hand, don't it burn like a live coal?"
"It do seem as though it were afire," he replied.
"Seem!" cried Mrs. Marks. "Is that all the pity yer have in your heart
for maybe your dying wife?"
"Lord save us!" exclaimed Matthew. "I've been a deal worse myself, and
got well again; don't be a frightening yourself in that way, or belike
you'll think you've one foot in the grave."
Then he poured some of the medicine in the glass, and held it towards
her.
"Here," said he, "here's what'll make you think different, and send away
the dismals."
"I won't take none of it," she replied; "not one drop. It weren't given
to me for the fiery pains I've got about me now."
"Come, Missus, come, don't'ee quarrel with the only thing that can do'ee
good," said Matthew, coaxingly.
"Do me good!" she exclaimed, with a sudden return of energy. "It's my
belief yer trying to pisin me. Be off and fetch the doctor!"
The doctor! Matthew stared in astonishment.
"What are you gaping at? Do you take me for a fool, or yourself, which?
Be off, I tell yer, and don't let yer shadow darken this door again
without him. Maybe he'll be able to say what's ailing me."
Away went Matthew, in a ludicrous state of bewilderment. His wife must
be bad indeed to send for the doctor; why he had never known her do such
a thing since they married. What a trouble he had had only a few months
ago to get her to see young Mr. Blane, and now she wanted him to come at
once. Matthew began to think his wife was crazy, as well as Jane;
perhaps she had sent him on a fool's errand. He insensibly slackened his
steps as he neared the village, and bethought him what he should say, as
he suddenly recollected he had received no instructions whatever.
The more he thought the more perplexed he grew, and seeing some boys
playing at marbles, Matthew drew near, and leaning against the railings,
watched them, and turned over again in his mind what he should say; but
loiter as he would, he could think of nothing save his wife's angry
face, as she had bade him begone; so, after a short delay, Matthew faced
the danger by boldly ringing the surgery bell.
"Is the Maister at home?" asked he, fervently wishing he might be miles
away.
Yes, Mr. Blane was in, and Marks followed the boy sorrowfully.
"Good morning, Mr. Marks. Come for some medicine? Where's the bottle?"
"No, thank'ee, Sir," said Matthew, twirling his hat about uncomfortably.
"My wife's took worse, and wants to know if so be ye'd make it
convenient to come and physic her?"
Yes; Mr. Blane could go at once, having no other call upon his time just
at present.
"And what's the matter with Mrs. Marks?" asked he, when they were fairly
on their way.
"That's more nor I can tell, Sir. She's all over like a live coal, and
'ud drink a bucket full if ye'd give it her."
"Has she taken the medicine regularly?"
This was a poser. Matthew scratched his head, took off his cap; he was
in no way prepared for such a question. What should he say?
"Well," said he presently, in a conciliating tone, "Well, you see, Sir,
when folks is ill they takes queer fancies sometimes, as I dare say yer
know better nor I can tell'ee. Now my wife's got hers, and no mistake;
she says you've gived her pisin."
It was Mr. Blane's turn now to be astonished, this being an answer he
was not prepared for. "Poison!" he echoed.
"Yes, just pisin, and nothing else; but there, Sir, there's no call to
be frightened, her head's that dizzy she can't scarce open her eyes,
much less know what she says."
"Has she taken a fresh cold?"
"Not that I knows on, Sir, t'aint possible now: her legs is so cramped
she's 'bliged to bide in doors."
"Poor thing! She seems patient enough under it all."
"Lord bless yer, Sir! Patient? Why she lets fly more nor any 'ooman I
know on; I can't say but what she do look meek enough when yer'e at the
'pike, but as soon as she's the least way riled she'll find more words
at her tongue's end than any other 'ooman in the parish. It's my belief
that's all that's the matter with her now; she've bin rating the whole
on us roundly one after t'other and has just worked herself into a
biling rage, for nothing at all."
"If that is all; the mischief is soon healed," said Mr. Blane, entering
the cottage.
Mrs. Marks sat just where her husband had left her, but her eyes were
closed and her face strangely flushed. She looked up wearily and
languidly, with not a trace of the temper her husband had spoken of, and
said not a word as the doctor took her burning hand in his and felt its
quick pulse.
"You had better get your wife to bed, Marks it will be more comfortable
for her than sitting here."
"Yes, Sir," said Marks, wondering how it was to be accomplished. However
he drew near and said, "Dont'ee think, old 'ooman, yer'd best do as the
doctor 'vises yer."
"In course," was the feeble reply, so different to the loud angry one
Matthew expected that he was staggered, and still more so when she
attempted to stand, but could not, and he and the young doctor between
them had to carry her to bed.
"What ails her, Sir?" asked Matthew, as Mr. Blane was going away. "D'yer
think it's the tongue's done it?"
"That may have increased the fever but not caused it," was the reply.
"The faiver! Oh Lord; what's to be done now?"
What was to be done, indeed?
Jane gave up the house-work and tended her sister night and day, leaving
Matthew and the girl to do as best they could without her, while for
days Mrs. Marks struggled between life and death; then she grew better,
the fever left her, and she lay weak as an infant, but otherwise
progressing favourably.
One evening Jane came downstairs and took up her station opposite her
brother-in-law, who, instead of rejoicing at the change, viewed her
presence with a rueful face. When his wife was present he could
sometimes forget Jane, but all alone it was impossible; move which way
he would he was sensible her eyes were on him as she plied her knitting
needles at her old work. How he hated that constant click, click!
"Did yer think t'was time for supper?" asked he presently, driven to say
something to break the silence, becoming every moment more intolerable.
"No."
"How's the Missus this evening?"
"Better. She's asleep."
"That's all right. I'm glad on it," he said, "for she've had a hard
time of it upstairs. When is it likely she'll be about again?"
"What did the doctor say? Didn't he tell you when?"
"He don't trouble to say much. I'm sure I'm right down glad when he
don't say she's worse, for that's been the one word in his mouth
lately."
Jane made no reply, but the feeling that her eyes were fixed steadily on
him exasperated him beyond control.
"What d'yer see in my ugly mug?" he asked. "Have you fallen in love with
it?"
"No."
"Then may be yer sees som'ut to skeer yer?"
"It's bad to have anything on the mind," she replied.
Matthew winced a little. "I'll tell you a piece of my mind," he said,
throwing his half-smoked pipe into the fire, "I'll take Mrs. Marks'
sauce and welcome, but I'm d--d if I take any other 'ooman's living."
"I wonder whatever ails you?" said she, quietly.
"Ails me? D'yer want to make believe I'm going to be knocked down with
the faiver? I'm not such an ass, I can tell yer, yer looks a dale more
likely yerself; and as to yer mind? yer look as though a horse couldn't
carry the load yer've got on it. A terrible bad load too, I'll take my
oath on it."
Jane shivered from head to foot.
"I'll take up the broth," she said, "most likely Anne's awake before
now."
But her hands trembled so she could scarcely take hold of the saucepan
to pour it out, while the cup and saucer rattled and shook as she went
across the room.
Matthew sat sulkily by, and never offered to help her.
"Well!" said he, as soon as she was gone, "it's my belief she'd have
stuck me, if she'd only laid hold of a knife instead of a spoon. How
trembly she was; her hands was all of a shake. She'll 'ave spilt all
that 'ere stuff, whatever 'tis, afore my wife tucks it down. Well, if
she 'aint crazed, I don't know who is."
He lit a fresh pipe, and smoked away in contented solitariness.
Presently, he looked thoughtful, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
said, "she's a-going to 'ave the faiver, or else she 'ave done som'ut
bad in her day, and that's what's crazed her."
Matthew was right as to the fever. Not many days passed before Jane was
taken ill with it.