PODS STRATAGEM.
Days and weeks passed away, but still Matthew Kelvin did not get
better. His condition fluctuated strangely. Sometimes for days
together there would be a slow but sure improvement. Appetite and
strength would alike increase, and his mother would grow glad at
heart, thinking that she should soon see him out and about again, and
as well as ever. But some morning, without the least warning, there
would come a terrible relapse, which, in the course of two or three
hours, would undo the improvement that it had taken days to effect,
flinging him helplessly back, as some strong wave flings back a
desperate swimmer the moment his foot touches the shore, leaving him,
buffeted and bruised, and with decreased strength, to struggle again
from the same point that he started from before. So it was with
Matthew Kelvin. There were times and seasons, after one of these
strange relapses, when to those about him he seemed on the very verge
of the grave--times and seasons when the patient himself prayed that
if there were to be no release from his sufferings but death, then
that death might come, and come quickly. Then would Dr. Druce be
summoned in hot haste by Mrs. Kelvin. Presently the old gentleman
would totter slowly into the room, smile blandly round at the anxious
faces about him, and, both by his manner and words, quietly pooh-pooh
their exaggerated alarm.
"I told you from the first," he would cheerfully remark, "that the
case was an obstinate one, and you must not allow these apparent
relapses to alarm you. The dying struggles of disease are often the
most severe. The garrison will sometimes make its most desperate
sortie after it knows that in the course of a few days it will be
compelled to capitulate unconditionally. For the present the pain is
over. I will send a composing draught, which the patient must take at
once; and to-morrow I doubt not but we shall find ourselves much
stronger and better."
Better next day Mr. Kelvin would undoubtedly be, but not stronger.
Each one of these mysterious relapses seemed to leave him a little
weaker than before, a little less able to cope with the enemy that
seemed bent on sapping away his life by slow degrees. But of this he
hinted nothing to his mother. Her anxiety on his account was deep
enough already; there was no need to add to her distress; so he kept
his own counsel, and put a cheerful face on the matter, and would
declare, on waking after one of the composing draughts, that he felt
stronger and better than he had felt for weeks.
If any of Mrs. Kelvin's friends ever hinted to her that Dr. Druce was
very old and very infirm, and that it might perhaps be advisable to
seek some further advice, the old lady was up in arms in a moment,
"Because people are old and not quite so active as they may once have
been, I hope they are not necessarily fools!" she would tartly remark.
"If that is the case, I must be a great fool, indeed. Dr. Druce has
practised in Pembridge for fifty years, and if his experience is not
worth more than that of a man thirty years his junior, I should like
to know what is the good of experience at all. No, no; the older a
doctor grows the cleverer he must become, if he has any brains at
all." After such an outburst as this, there was nothing more to be
said, especially as the patient himself seemed to have every
confidence in Dr. Druce's skill and ability to cope with the strange
malady from which he was suffering.
Nothing more was now said about Olive Deane's return to her duties at
Stammar. It was an understood thing that she could not possibly be
spared while her cousin's health remained as it was at present. Lady
Dudgeon had very kindly consented to keep the situation open for her
for a few weeks longer, in the hope that by that time Mr. Kelvin's
health might be so far restored as to allow of Olive's resumption of
her duties; but Olive, though she said nothing, had far different
objects in view. She laughed to herself when she read Lady Dudgeon's
note, and then tossed it contemptuously into the fire.
She had, indeed, long before this time, contrived to render herself
indispensable both to her aunt and her cousin. She could not always be
in the sickroom. Many were the hours that she and her aunt sat
together alone. Such hours she did her best to brighten by means of
pleasant, genial talk and long readings from her aunt's favourite
books, and the old lady was proportionately grateful.
"I often feel as if you had always lived with us," she would sometimes
say to Olive. "You seem altogether like one of ourselves, and however
we shall be able to let you go again, I can't tell. If Matthew were a
marrying man, he might do worse, my dear, than make you his wife. But
that is out of the question, for I don't suppose he will ever marry
now."
Olive was not quite so sure on that point as her aunt seemed to be.
Her affectionate devotion to her cousin seemed as if it were about to
bear fruit at last. He could not bear to let any one but Olive wait
upon him or minister to his needs.
Even to his mother he once or twice spoke with a slight tinge of
impatience; coming after Olive, her waiting upon him seemed slow and
bungling indeed. "If you would only sit down in that easy chair,
mother, and let Olive attend to me!" he would say. "I want you to tell
me all the gossip, and not to be bothering yourself and me about the
quality of my beef-tea."
As for having any common paid nurse to wait upon him, that was
altogether out of the question now.
As he sat in his easy-chair one day, propped up with pillows and
sipping at a cup of barley-water, while Olive sat on a low hassock
close by, waiting till he should be ready to give her the cup, he said
to her suddenly, after a long silence: "I believe, Olive, that if I
ever do get better--which I sometimes doubt--I shall owe my life far
more to your care and attention than to old Druce's filthy mixtures. I
shall never know how to repay you. I never knew that you had half the
splendid qualities in you that you have shown of late. But we men can
hardly ever see farther than our noses where a woman is concerned. I
am afraid I shall have to remain your debtor to the end of the
chapter."
"You talk very great nonsense, Matthew," she said, in a voice that was
hardly louder than a whisper. "You my debtor, indeed!"
One of her cousin's hands rested on the arm of his chair; by accident,
it may be, one of Olive's hands found its way to the same place. Their
fingers touched. Matthew put down his empty cup, and taking Olive's
hand in both his, drew her towards him. Then he put one arm round her
neck, and drawing her face close to his, he kissed her on the
forehead. They both looked round with a start. Mrs. Kelvin had quietly
opened the door, and was standing there with a smile on her face.
"Two's company--three's none," said the old lady, pleasantly. "I'll go
back to my room for a little while, and next time I come I will be
discreet enough to cough before opening the door."
"You dear old goose!" said Kelvin. "If cousins may not kiss, who may?"
"Oh, don't think that I object to your kissing each other!" cried the
old lady. "That sort of medicine might do you more good than any
other."
"By Jove, now, I never thought of that!" cried Kelvin, with a laugh.
"Only, in the present case, it was altogether a one-sided affair. It
was not Olive who was kissing me, but I who was kissing Olive."
These were the last words that Olive heard, as, with face aflame, she
hurried from the room; but what had just happened was enough to fill
her with strange, rapturous thoughts, and to strengthen hopes that
were beginning to droop and grow faint for want of sustenance. Ce
n'est que le premier pas qui coûte. The ice was broken; the first step
was taken; everything else would follow in due course.
No after allusion was made either by Matthew or his mother to the
scene just described, but Olive flattered herself by imagining that
there was a warmth, a significance, in her cousin's manner now, such
as she had never noticed before. If he would but speak; if he would
but breathe one word to which she could pin her faith--that she
could treasure up even as a half promise that he would make her his
wife--from that very day his illness should begin to leave him! But
atpresent she dare not falter in the course she had laid down for
herself. Were he to recover suddenly now, all thoughts of her and her
services would be quickly swept from his mind by the inrush of hopes,
cares, pleasures, and anxieties of everyday life, which the floodgates
of sickness had for a time partially shut out. Every additional day
that kept him helpless in her hands was so much gain to her hopes.
The more deeply he continued to feel the need of her and her services,
the more likely was his gratitude to lead him by imperceptible degrees
into the easy pathway of love. If he had not loved her a little he
would hardly have kissed her as he did. Let him but seal those kisses
with a word, and from that moment the breath of returning life should
fill his nostrils; while no man should ever have a wife more tender
and devoted than she would be to him. How bitterly it made her heart
ache to see him lying there in pain, which she alone could relieve but
dare not--to see him wasting day by day into a haggard, gaunt-eyed
skeleton of his former self--no one but herself could ever more than
faintly imagine. "If he were to die, I should poison myself an hour
after. But he won't do that. Suddenly, some day, the scales will fall
from his eyes, and he will know that he loves me and that I love him;
and that love shall bring him back to life and health from the verge
of the grave itself!"
Pod Piper was a frequent visitor in his master's sickroom. Whenever
Mr. Kelvin felt himself a little better, he would send for Pod and
dictate sundry instructions, chiefly replies to some of his many
correspondents, which that young gentleman would take down in
shorthand, to be copied out afterwards in the office downstairs. Of
course, there were times when it was requisite that Mr. Bray, the
head-clerk, should see his employer in person; but as he happened to
be slightly afflicted with deafness, the labour of talking to him was
sometimes too much for Mr. Kelvin, so he dispensed as much as possible
with the necessity of seeing him. To Olive Deane it seemed far better
that if any one must see her cousin frequently on matters of business,
that person should be a simple country lad, the chief occupation of
whose mind probably was to wonder what he should have for dinner,
rather than that quietly observant Mr. Bray, who seemed to see so much
and to say so little. So to Pod she was always coldly gracious, and
when he had finished with Mr. Kelvin upstairs, he generally found a
piece of bread and jam, or a slice of cake, or an orange, on the hall
table, put there for him by Olive herself Whatever the article might
be, it made no difference to Pod: he treated them all with the strict
impartiality of a hungry lad: but his private opinion with regard to
Miss Deane was not modified one iota thereby. He could not forget the
scene between her and Mr. Pomeroy; he could not forget the base plot
of which he had overheard the details, and of which his favourite,
Miss Lloyd, was to be the victim.
"She's a snake in the grass, if ever there was one," Pod would often
remark confidentially to himself, even while in the very act of
munching the bread and jam which Miss Deane had prepared for him.
"Doesn't the governor seem to have got fond of her all of a sudden!"
remarked Pod, parenthetically to himself, one day, as he was marching
slowly downstairs from the sick man's room. "Nobody else must wait
upon him, or even be near him. It's disgusting!"
There was a splendid orange waiting for him on the hall table this
morning. He took it with him to his den to enjoy in secret; but all
the time he was sucking the orange, his thoughts were with his master
and Miss Deane. "How close she sticks to him! Seems as if she couldn't
bear even the old lady to go near him. What a funny thing it is he
don't get better! I don't believe Dr. Druce, who's no better than an
old woman, knows a bit what's the matter with him. I've seen him two
or three times when he's had one of his bad attacks on him, and I'm
blessed if I don't have a jaw with Dr. Whitaker about it. _He's_
something like a doctor."
The Dr. Whitaker alluded to by Pod was a young practitioner who had
been settled in Pembridge some five or six years. Some professional
difference of opinion had arisen between him and Dr. Druce over a case
to which they had both been called in, and the older man no longer
recognized the younger when they passed each other in the street, or
even spoke of him otherwise than in a tone of polite contempt: all of
which in no wise troubled Dr. Whitaker, who plodded his way through
life with a kind word and a pleasant smile for everybody--even
including old Dr. Druce.
Kelvin and he had met several times at the houses of mutual friends,
and had learned to know and like each other: and when the former was
taken ill, Dr. Whitaker was the man he would have liked to attend him;
but he knew that to have breathed such a wish to his mother would
almost have broken her heart, so firmly did she pin her faith to Dr.
Druce.
If there was one thing that easy-going Dr. Whitaker detested more than
another, it was having to make out his own bills. In order to obviate
this disagreeable necessity, he had taken of late to employing Pod
Piper as his secretary. Pod wrote a capital hand for a youngster, and
was only too well pleased to be able to earn a few shillings now and
again by working after office-hours. Everybody in Pembridge knew of
Mr. Kelvin's illness by this time, and Dr. Whitaker seldom saw Pod
without inquiring after him. Thus it was that Pod saw his way to bring
under the notice of Dr. Whitaker easily, and as if in the course of
ordinary conversation, that which he was growing anxious to tell him.
Accordingly, the next time Dr. Whitaker put his usual query, "How has
the governor been to day?" Pod was prepared to go more into detail
than he had ever done before.
"Much the same as usual, sir, thank you," he answered. "But if I may
make so bold as to say so, my opinion is that Dr. Druce is no better
than an old woman. It's the liver, he says---nothing but the liver. If
that's all that's the matter, why don't he cure it? Now, if master
would only send for you, sir, I'm sure you would soon put him all
right again."
"Piper," said Dr. Whitaker, as he leisurely proceeded to light a
cigar, "Dr. Druce is one of the antiquities of Pembridge, and
antiquities should always be respected. Oblige me by getting on with
your work."
Dr. Whitaker went out, and was gone for upwards of an hour. When he
got back, Pod was putting away his papers for the night. "He was
dreadfully sick this morning when I was in the room," remarked Pod,
quietly, as if there had been no hiatus in the conversation. "In fact,
there's hardly a day passes that he isn't dreadfully sick. But of
course it's all the liver."
"Ah, ah! he's often sick, is he?" And then Dr. Whitaker whistled a few
bars below his breath. "Is his sickness accompanied or followed by any
particular pain, or any peculiar sensation, do you know?" he said, in
a minute or two.
It is not needful that Pod's answer should be set down here. It is
sufficient to say that whatever it was it put a sudden end to the
young doctor's careless mood. He lighted another cigar, and made Pod
sit down opposite to him, and questioned him closely and minutely for
upwards of half an hour; and when at last he let him go, it was with a
caution not to say a word to anyone about their interview. "Watch
closely, and tell me everything," he said. "To-day is Tuesday; you
will come to me at seven on Thursday evening. Contrive to be as much
with your master during the interval as you can be without exciting
suspicion, and note particularly those points which I have specified."
Fortune favoured Pod next morning more than he would have dared to
expect. He was called up, as usual, to take down Mr. Kelvin's notes in
shorthand. Kelvin, this morning, seemed feebler than usual, and was
obliged to pause several times while dictating his instructions. He
had got about half-way through the morning's letters, when Miss Deane
came in with a cup of tea in her hand. "Take a little of this,
Matthew," she said. "It will help to revive you."
He was sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows. He took the tea and
sipped at it. "It's a little too hot," he said. "I will drink it
presently."
Olive was in the act of putting the cup and saucer on the little table
which stood close to her cousin's hand, when there came a hurried
knocking at the room door, and next moment the head of one of the
servants was intruded into the room. "Oh! if you please, miss," said
the girl, "Mrs. Kelvin has met with a little accident. She slipped
just now as she was coming downstairs. I don't think she's much hurt,
but she wants you to go at once."
Leaving the cup and saucer on the little table, Olive hurried from the
room.
"Send me up word, Olive, as soon as you can, whether anything serious
is the matter," her cousin said to her as she was going.
He was evidently anxious. "We will leave the papers for a little
while, Piper," he said, presently. "We shall have some news from
downstairs before long." Then he took the tea and drank a little of
it. "I don't know how it is," he said, more as if speaking to himself
than addressing Pod, "but of late everything seems to have such a
queer taste."
The cup was still in his fingers when Olive opened the door.
"There's nothing to alarm you, Matthew," she said; "nothing serious
the matter. Aunt missed the bottom stair as she was coming down. She
is a little shaken--nothing worse. If you don't want me just now I
will go and sit with her for a little while."
"Go, by all means. Piper and I have not quite finished," said Kelvin.
"I am very glad indeed that nothing more serious is the matter."
Olive left the room, and Kelvin put the cup and saucer back on the
table. Then he took up a long letter which he had partly read before,
and Pod expected he was going to finish it; but, after reading a few
lines, he paused, as though considering some point in his mind. He was
still holding the letter, still evidently thinking about it, when,
by-and-by, he shut his eyes. Pod thought that he had shut them in order
to think out more clearly the case before him: perhaps he had. But in
the course of two or three minutes the hand that held the letter
relaxed its grasp, and Mr. Kelvin's low, regular breathing indicated
that he was asleep.
Pod Piper had been sitting very quietly all this time, thinking
chiefly of what Dr. Whitaker had talked to him about last evening. Now
that his master was asleep, there was nothing to hinder him from
taking a long look at him, and tears came into the lad's eyes as he
gazed at the hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked wreck before him. "If this is
her doing--If her hand has done this--she must be a daughter of the
devil him self!" muttered Pod.
He never could tell afterwards what prompted the thought to enter his
mind, but all at once, while gazing at the sleeping man, his face
flushed, his eyes brightened, and he rose nervously from his chair.
Yes: the breakfast-cup was on the little table, and still three-parts
filled with tea. On another table near the door were a couple of empty
physic-bottles, put there for the servant to take away. Pod's mind was
made up in a moment. Another glance at the sleeper convinced him that
there was no present fear from that quarter. Stepping lightly and on
tiptoe, he went round the foot of the bed to the other side. Then he
took the cup of tea and crossed the room with it to the table on which
the empty bottles were standing. One of these bottles he uncorked, and
into it, with the loss of a few drops only, he dexterously contrived
to pour the tea. Then he recorked the bottle, hid it carefully away in
his pocket, and put back the cup on to the little table. That done, he
quietly resumed his seat by the sleeping man.
Five minutes later, Miss Deane came into the room. Pod warned her by a
gesture that Mr. Kelvin was asleep. She stood gazing at him for a
moment, and then she glanced across at the tea-cup. "Did he drink his
tea before going to sleep?" she whispered to Pod.
"Yes--every drop of it," answered Pod, without a moment's hesitation.
She took up the cup and saucer and one or two other things, and moved
towards the door. Then she took up the empty bottle, and then she
looked round as if searching for the other one. Pod was furtively
watching her, and his heart came into his mouth. She stood for a
moment as if in doubt, but not being quite sure, apparently, whether
there had been one bottle or two, she made no remark, but went out of
the room as quietly as she had come in.
In ten minutes she was back again. Kelvin was still asleep. "I think
there is no need for you to wait any longer," she whispered to Pod.
"Mr. Kelvin may sleep for an hour, or even longer. Should he want you
when he awakes, I will send for you."
So Pod went, and very thankful he was to get away. When the
dinner-hour came, he rushed off at once to Dr. Whitaker's, and telling
that gentleman what he had done, left the bottle with him.
Twenty-four hours later. Dr. Whitaker handed a sealed letter to Pod,
with instructions to give the same privately into the hands of Mr.
Kelvin at the first possible opportunity. That opportunity came next
morning, when Miss Deane left the room for a few minutes while her
cousin was dictating his letters to Pod. The moment the door was shut
behind her. Pod, who had been on the watch, passed the letter into the
hands of Mr. Kelvin. "You must read this in private, please, before
Miss Deane comes back into the room."
Kelvin looked at the lad, but broke the seal without comment. Then,
glancing at the signature, "From Whitaker!" he said. "What on earth
can he have to write to me about?"
Dr. Whitaker's letter ran as under--
"My dear Kelvin,--
"I need not tell you that I have been truly grieved to hear of
your long illness, as I do not doubt that you would be grieved were I
in the same unfortunate predicament. As your clerk, young Piper, is
frequently employed by me of an evening in making out my accounts, I
have been enabled to question him pretty closely as to the progress
and symptoms of your complaint. As a professional man, such details
are never without interest for me, more especially where one of my
friends is concerned. Certain things which Piper has told me of late
(in answer to my questioning) have set me thinking very seriously.
"I have a certain delicacy in writing to you as I am writing now.
Druce and I, as you are well aware, are by no means the best of
friends. He looks upon me as a juvenile who has hardly learnt the ABC
of his profession--as a believer in new-fangled notions such as the
world had never heard of when he was young; and, finally, he holds me
in most general contempt. He is quite welcome to his opinion of me. I
may have mine about him, only I keep it to myself. In such a state of
affairs, for me to interfere, either verbally or by writing, with one
of his patients, is a professional crime for which nothing less than
hanging, drawing, and quartering ought to be punishment sufficient.
Indeed, I may tell you, that unless the occasion had seemed to me a
very serious one indeed, no such interference on my part would have
taken place. But were I to go to Dr. Druce and tell him what I have
reason to think about your case, how should I be received?
"As it happens, there is no need to answer this question. I am not
going to Druce. I am going to put him aside, and, breaking through all
the rules of professional etiquette, to communicate with you direct.
"My dear Kelvin, I have heard enough from Piper about your case both
to puzzle and alarm me. Yours is certainly no ordinary liver
complaint. I may tell you that much at once. What else it may be, I am
hardly prepared as yet to say--or even to hint. But if you have any
regard for my words, or any belief in my knowledge, you will do what I
ask of you, and do it without hesitation or delay.
"What I want you to do is this: To send to me by Piper, in a bottle
sealed by your own hand, about half a pint of what ever liquid may be
brought you to drink after you have read this letter--it matters
little whether it be tea, barley-water, toast-and-water, or anything
else. Do this unknown to anyone but Piper, who will at once bring me
the bottle and contents. Whisper no word to anyone as to what you have
done, and ask Piper no questions. He may be trusted implicitly, but of
the details he knows nothing. Till you hear from me again, which will
probably be to-morrow evening, take as little liquid as possible,
and eat nothing but plain biscuits and dry toast. A little weak
brandy-and-water will do you no harm, but either mix it yourself or see
it mixed. Be sure that I am not asking you to do all this without a
reason, and a very powerful one too. Above all things--_silence and
secrecy_. Burn this as soon as read, and believe me.
"Your sincere friend,
"Cyrus Whitaker."
"Burn this letter," said Kelvin to Pod, when he had read it through
twice. When he had seen it shrivelled into ashes, he lay back on his
pillows, thinking, and neither stirred nor spoke till Miss Deane came
into the room, some quarter o f an hour afterwards.
"Olive," he said, but without turning his eyes towards her, "I feel
more thirsty than usual this morning. If you have any barley-water
ready-made, I should like you to get me some."
She smiled, and went without a word. Five minutes later, she came back
with a small jug and a glass.
"Will you take a little of it now?" she asked.
"Yes, just a little, and then you can put the things on the table
within reach." After she had given him a little of the barley-water,
he said, "Piper and I have rather a heavy lot of papers to wade
through this morning, so, while we are finishing them, I wish you
would just step round to the library and get me that book of travels
we were talking about last night; or if that one is not at home, some
other: you know the sort I like."
As soon as Olive had left the room, Kelvin turned to Pod. "You have
got a bottle in your pocket, I suppose?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"Then pour that barley-water into it, and cork it up tightly."
When this was done, Pod lighted a taper, and Kelvin sealed up the
bottle with his own trembling fingers, and stamped it with the
monogram of his ring. Then the bottle went back into Pod's pocket.
"No more business to-day," said the sick man, wearily. "Take those
papers back to Mr. Bray, and tell him to do the best he can with them.
As for yourself, you will go at once to Dr. Whitaker, and give that
bottle into his own hands. I suppose I may rely upon your fidelity and
discretion in this matter, eh?"
"You may do that, sir, with perfect confidence," said Pod, with much
earnestness.
"Yes, I think you are true and honest," said Kelvin, slowly, with his
eyes fixed full on the boy's open face. Then, as Pod went out, he
added to himself: "That letter of Whitaker's has instilled such a
horrible suspicion into my mind, that I no longer know whom or what to
believe."
Next morning. Pod smuggled another letter into the hands of his
master. It was very brief, but very much to the purpose.
"My Dear Kelvin,
"I must see you as quickly as possible, and in _private_. Your
restoration to health, nay, your life itself, may depend on this. No
one must know of my visit except Piper; and you must let me know
through him when you can arrange to have me admitted to your room
without any of your household being aware of my visit. Not a word to
anyone. Burn this.
"Yours ever,
"C. W."
For fully half an hour Matthew Kelvin remained buried in thought after
reading this letter. Then he said to Pod:
"Instead of Mr. Bray signing the letters this afternoon, you will
bring them upstairs to be signed by me." At five o'clock, up came Pod
with the letters. Kelvin was sitting up in his easy-chair by this
time, and it struck Pod that he looked brighter and better than he had
seen him look for some time past. When the letters were signed, and
Pod was about to go, Kelvin put into his hand a sealed envelope. "Give
this to Dr. Whitaker, and be sure that he has it to-night."
Inside the envelope was a scrap of paper, on which were written these
words:
"To-morrow morning at half-past eleven.
"M. K."