AUNT MADGE.
"It is more delightful and more honourable to give than
receive."--_Epicurus_.
Most people thought it a strange thing that Mrs. Broderick spoke so
constantly of her husband. Mrs. Tolman, the Vicar's wife, who was a
frequent visitor, had been scandalised more than once, and had
expressed herself rather strongly on the subject to her husband.
"I know you think very highly of poor Mrs. Broderick, Stephen, and so
do I," she remarked one day. "Very few women would bear things in that
quiet, uncomplaining way, and the amount of work she gets through is
astonishing; but that perpetual dragging in of her husband's name seems
to me such bad taste."
"Upon my word, Isabella, I cannot say that I agree with you." And the
Vicar straightened himself on the rug in his favourite attitude. He
was a heavy, ponderous man, with an expression of shrewd good sense on
his face that won people's confidence. "I wish other women were as
faithful to their husband's memory, that flighty little Mrs. Martin,
for example."
"My dear Stephen, what an absurd idea! Fancy talking of Lydia Martin,
every one knows she is making a dead set at Mr. Germaine, although poor
Jack Martin has hardly been dead a year. She is Mrs. Broderick's exact
opposite. Please do not misunderstand me in this tiresome way," and
here Mrs. Tolman frowned slightly. "It is the manner in which Mrs.
Broderick speaks of her husband that offends my tastes. In my
opinion"--compressing her lips as she spoke--"our departed dear ones
are sacred, and should not be mentioned in a secular manner."
At the word "secular" there was a twinkle in the Vicar's eyes, though
he held his peace. And to tell the truth, Mrs. Tolman had been unable
to find the expression she needed.
"But with Mrs. Broderick it is 'Fergus here' and 'Fergus there,' just
as though he were alive and in the next room, and she was expecting him
in every moment. Sometimes in the twilight it makes me quite creepy to
hear her speaking in that sprightly voice, just as though she were
making believe that he heard her."
"Poor soul!" was the Vicar's answer to this; but he was used to keeping
his thoughts to himself--he and Mrs. Broderick understood each other
perfectly. She had not a firmer friend in the world, unless it was her
kind physician, Dr. Randolph. "Poor soul!" he repeated when his wife
in silent dudgeon had retired from the room.
"It is not likely that Isabella would understand her; Mrs. Broderick is
the bravest and the brightest woman I know, and yet the furnace was
heated sevenfold for her. Make believe that he is alive! Why, he has
never been dead to her! It is her vivid faith and her vivid
imagination that has helped her to live all these years instead of
lying there a crushed wreck for people to patronise and pity."
And here again there was a wicked little twinkle in the Vicar's eyes.
Did he not know his Isabella, and how good she was to those who would
allow her to advise and lecture them.
"Mrs. Broderick has just laughed and put her foot down, that is why
Isabella is always complaining of her. They have not exactly hit it
off." And here the Vicar laughed softly as he sat down to consider his
sermon.
"Aunt Madge, how cosy you look!" exclaimed Olivia, as she stood on the
threshold of the warm firelit room; and then a swift transition of
thought carried her back to the dismal little dining-room at Galvaston
Terrace, with its black smouldering fire, and the damp clinging to the
window-panes, and an involuntary shiver crossed her as she knelt down
beside her aunt's couch.
"My dear Livy, you are a perfect iceberg!" exclaimed Mrs. Broderick.
"No, you shall not kiss me again until you are warmer. Sit down in
that easy-chair close to the fire where I can see you, and take that
handscreen for the good of your complexion.--Now, Deb, bring the
tea-things, like a good soul, for Mrs. Luttrell has made a poor dinner."
"How could you guess that, Aunt Madge? Are you a witch or a magician?"
asked Olivia, in her astonished voice. It was pure guess-work on Mrs.
Broderick's part, but as usual her keen wits had grazed the truth.
Olivia, who had a healthy girlish appetite, had risen from the midday
meal almost as hungry as when she had sat down. The dish of hashed
mutton had been small, and if Olivia had eaten her share, Martha would
have fared badly. A convenient flower-pot, a gift from Aunt Madge, had
prevented Marcus from seeing his wife's plate. Olivia, who had dined
off potatoes and gravy, was already faint from exhaustion. As usual,
she confessed the truth.
"It was my fault, Aunt Madge," she said, basking like a blissful
salamander in the warm glow. "I ought to have known the meat would not
go round properly; but happily Marcus did not notice, or else there
would have been a fuss. He and Martha dined properly, and I mean to
enjoy my tea."
But Mrs. Broderick's only answer was to ring her handbell.
"Deb, boil two of those nice new-laid eggs that Mrs. Broughton sent me.
Mrs. Luttrell has had no dinner; if the scones are ready we will have
tea at once." And as Deborah nodded and vanished, she shook her head a
little sadly. "Olive dear, it won't pay; you are not the sort of
person who can safely starve. I thought there was something wrong
about you when you came in; you had a peaky, under-fed look. Oh, I
thought so!" as the tears rose to Olivia's eyes. "Now, I am not going
to say another word until you have had your tea. Look at Zoe; she
thinks you are in trouble about something, and wants to lick your face.
Is not the sympathy of a dumb creature touching? They don't understand
what is wrong, but they see plainly that their human friend is unhappy.
Come to me, Zoe, and I will explain matters. It is not much of a
trouble. Olive is not really miserable; she is only cold and hungry
and weak, and wants petting and cosseting."
"I think I am rather unhappy, Aunt Madge," returned Olivia, in a sad
voice. "Things are getting worse, and Marcus looks so careworn; he was
talking in his sleep last night. We have so little money left--only
just enough for six months' rent and the coals, and ever so little for
housekeeping, and no patients come, and now I have made up my mind to
tell him to-night that Martha must go."
"My dear Olivia, we talked that over a few weeks ago, and we decided
then that you had better keep her."
"Yes, Aunt Madge, I know; but indeed, indeed we cannot afford her
food--these growing girls must be properly fed, and the amount of bread
and butter she eats would astonish Deb----" and here Olivia heaved a
harassed sigh.
"Well, well, we will talk it over again"--and then Deb brought in the
tea-things, and the scones, and the new-laid eggs, and as Mrs.
Broderick sipped her tea it did her kind heart good to see how her
niece enjoyed the good things before her.
"There now, you feel ever so much better," she said, when the meal was
finished. "Now we can talk comfortably. I have been thinking over
what you have said, and I suppose you are right from your point of
view, and that if you cannot afford Martha's food she must go, but I
have been thinking of Marcus. He is at the turning-point of his
career. Everything depends on his making a practice. When patients
send for him, and they will send for him by-and-by, do you think it
will look well for his wife to open the door to them."
"But, Aunt Madge----"
"Olive, you were always a good, honest little girl, and you have grown
up an honest woman; you want to do your duty and slave for Marcus and
Dot, and you have begun nobly by starving yourself until you are on the
verge of an hysterical attack, but we must think of Marcus. Martha
must not go, at least, not until the winter is over. I have been
saving a few pounds for your Christmas present I meant you to have had
a new dress and jacket, and a few other little things you needed; but
if you like to pay Martha's wages with it until Easter you can please
yourself--only take it and say no more--what, crying again! What
nonsense, as though I may not give my own niece a little present."
"It is the goodness and the kindness," returned Olivia, with a low sob.
"Aunt Madge, why are you so good to me? You have saved all this, and
you have so little to spare--as though I do not know what a small
income you really have."
"It is a very respectable income, and my dear Fergus worked hard to
make it. I never professed to be a rich woman, but I have everything I
want. If people would only cut their coat by their cloth, as Fergus
used to say, there would be less distress in the world; well, my wants
are few; I have no milliner's bills;" here there was a gleam of fun in
the invalid's eyes. "No smart bonnets or fashionable mantles needed at
this establishment; only just a cosy tea-gown now and then when the old
one is too shabby. Come, Olive, are you not going to count your
money?" And then Olivia emptied the contents of the little purse on
her lap.
"Well?" as the slim fingers sorted the gold and silver; "will there be
enough for Martha's wages until Easter?"
"Yes, indeed, Aunt Madge, and there will be some over. I can buy the
stuff for baby's winter pelisse without troubling Marcus, and do you
know," knitting her brows in careful calculation, "I do believe that
with a little contrivance and management I can get some new trimming
for my Sunday hat, and a pair of chevrette gloves; good chevrette
gloves are dear, but they wear splendidly, and a pair would last me
most of the winter--yes," her eyes brightening, "I am sure I could do
it; it does fret Marcus so to see me shabby."
Mrs. Broderick nodded in a sympathising way--she knew the joy of these
small economies and contrivances; the little purse of savings had not
been gathered together without some self-denial; but as she saw the
lovely rainbow smile on Olivia's face, she felt that she had her reward.
"This is my red-letter day," she said, quaintly; "it is always a
red-letter day when I can really help someone. I have my black-letter
days when I can do nothing special, when it is all noughts and crosses
in my diary, I have had my Christmas treat beforehand, and I shall be
quite happy till bed-time thinking about Dot's pelisse and the new
hat-trimming; by-the-bye, what colour is the pelisse to be?"
"Blue, baby is so fair, and blue suits her best; I think I shall get
some cotton-backed velvet just to trim it;--I must not dream of fur."
"How would miniver look round the cape and neck? I have two or three
yards in very good condition. Deb picked it off my wadded satin mantle
years ago. I was keeping it for some special occasion. If you buy a
really good cashmere, and trim it with my old miniver, Dot will have a
grand pelisse," and then Mrs. Broderick hunted in her key-basket for a
certain key, and instructed her niece to unlock a drawer in her
wardrobe.
It was growing late by this time, and Olivia was obliged to take her
leave. Marcus had promised to be back by seven, and it was six o'clock
now; but as she walked briskly through the quiet streets she felt as
light-hearted as a child.
What a happy evening she and Marcus would spend! There would be no
need now to tell him about Martha, or to beg him to give her the few
shillings for Dot's pelisse; he should have a nice tea. Aunt Madge had
made her take a couple of the new-laid eggs and a pot of Deb's
delicious marmalade home with her, and she knew how Marcus would enjoy
the little treat.
"Dear Aunt Madge, how I love her? I think she is the very best woman
in the world;" but here Olivia gave a surprised start. She had reached
the print-shop at the corner of Harbut Street, and in the strong glare
of the gas-lamp she distinctly saw the tall, bent form of her
mysterious neighbour.
He was coming out of the shop, and walking stiffly and with difficulty
in the direction of his house. She had never known him out so late
before. His afternoon walk was always timed for him to be back by
four. She glanced at the shop window, but there was no picture of "The
Prodigal Son" to be seen.
Had he bought it? Was this the reason why he was out so late? Olivia
felt a little anxious as she noticed how feebly he walked; the greasy
pavements were rather slippery, and Galvaston Terrace was not a
well-lighted thoroughfare. Perhaps it was nonsense, but she would not
enter her house until she had seen him safely across the road, and
within the lion-guarded portals.
It was just kindly womanly instinct, but all her life long Olivia was
glad that she had yielded to that impulse. She was still standing upon
the step, and the old man was nearly across the road, when she saw him
slip. A piece of orange-peel on the curb had escaped him in the
darkness, and he had put his foot on the slippery substance. Olivia
gave a quick exclamation as she saw him try to recover his balance, and
then fall forward rather heavily. No one was passing just then, and
happily the road was clear of vehicles. Olivia ran across and picked
up his stick, then she took him by the arm and helped him to rise.
"I trust you have not hurt yourself," she said, anxiously. "Please do
not be afraid of leaning on me, I am very strong. Ah," as the old man
uttered a groan, "you have injured yourself in some way. The curb is
rather steep just here."
"It is my ankle, but I must get home somehow. You are very good,
madam; if you will allow me to take your arm, I think I can manage
those few yards. I live there," pointing to the grim doorway.
"Yes, I know: Mr. Gaythorne, of Galvaston House; we are neighbours of
yours, and I have seen you come out of the house frequently. Shall I
ring the bell for you, and perhaps"--hesitating a little, as though she
were taking a liberty--"you will allow me to go as far as the hall-door
with you."
But to her alarm the old man suddenly stood still. It was pitchy dark
under the overhanging trees, and only a faint gleam from a large bow
window showed her the length of the garden-path that they would have to
traverse.
"I can do no more," he said, faintly; "I believe I have broken my
ankle. Mrs. Crampton and the maids must find some way of getting me
in. Perhaps, madam, you will be so good as to explain the matter to
them. I see the door is open," and Olivia at once left him and went up
to the house.
"Your master has met with a slight accident," she said to the
astonished maid. "He has fallen and hurt his foot, and it is quite
impossible for him to walk up to the house. He mentioned Mrs.
Crampton; perhaps you will ask her what is to be done," and the girl, a
good-natured, buxom country lass, at once ran off.
Olivia stood patiently for a few minutes. The hall with its handsome
rugs and blazing fire looked delightfully inviting. A lean, old hound,
stretched on a tiger skin, turned its head and then rose stiffly and
came towards her. As its slender nose touched her dress, she saw the
poor thing was blind. The next moment a cheerful-looking, grey-haired
woman hurried towards her, followed by two maids.
"What is it that Phoebe tells me, ma'am; Mr. Gaythorne has met with an
accident? Times out of number I have begged and prayed him not to go
out alone; but he was not to be persuaded."
"He is down there by the gate, the trees hide him," returned Olivia,
hastily. "I think it would be best to take an arm-chair, if you think
we could carry him in. He is in dreadful pain and cannot walk a step
farther."
"Phoebe, tell cook to light the lantern, and then you two girls bring
one of the study chairs--the lantern first, mind.
"Now, ma'am, perhaps we had better find my master, and the lasses will
follow us. There are four of us, and Mr. Gaythorne is not so very
heavy, and we will have him on the library couch in no time."