THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.
Even in small towns events follow each other so rapidly that one subject
of gossip soon pushes another into the background, and in Scourby Mary
Wythburn would have been forgotten, except by a few of her own personal
friends, but for the fact that her name had been coupled with that of
Dr. Stapleton in a suspicious report which did him great damage in the
opinion of his fellow-townsmen. The doctor was a young medical man who
was rapidly making his way in the town, and had many friends. He was
especially good to the poor, and for several years attended them free of
charge at their own homes, and he also held at his house a medical
mission. Twice a week his consulting-room was almost like a small “Pool
of Bethesda,” for the number of halt and maimed who came to it for
advice and medicine. He always made them pay for these by their
attendance at a ten minutes’ talk which preceded the regular business on
which they came. But the doctor did not usually address these people on
religious topics. His faith in the power of Christ to redeem them was
strong and unquestioning, but he knew that in the streets, through the
efforts of the Salvation Army and other evangelists, they were at their
own doors continually hearing of the way of salvation. It was rather a
gospel of self-help that Dr. Stapleton preached to them. He wanted them
to love God, but since they could not do that because they did not as
yet love their fellow-men, he sought to make them at least love
themselves, which they were a long way from doing. So he discoursed to
them, in rousing words, on cleanliness and health, on language and
character, on habits and opinions, and especially on the delight and the
dignity of work. There were some strange ideas among these people in
regard to this last subject; they actually talked of themselves as the
working-classes, while many of them were as idle as they could be.
Public movement was in the direction of shortening the hours of labour
for men; and it was hoped, therefore, that since many of them only
worked eight hours, the professional classes might presently rest when
they had been engaged for twelve, and that women would not be expected
to work for more than sixteen. But these women who were helped by Dr.
Stapleton, whose homes were dirty and wretched, and whose persons were
untidy, did very little real work at all; and he knew that if they could
be persuaded to love, instead of hate, it, a vast difference would at
once be made to their lives. So he did what he could, and very
sympathetically, since he knew under what terrible conditions many of
them lived, and how hard it is to keep a very little home entirely clean
and tidy.
Dr. Stapleton one morning noticed that the people appeared to be
offended with him. This vexed and made him irritable, and it must be
confessed that he had not a good temper at the best of times. Just now,
indeed, he was overwhelmed with troubles of which few people guessed,
though some were evident enough. For one thing, a Parliamentary election
was impending, and a section of the Scourby men had decided to lead the
way in a new departure. There was to be a grand fight for principle.
Every one said that, though exactly what the principle was remained
undefined, only one thing seemed clear, that the fight would be between
the classes who had property and character and those who had neither.
For a change had come into the political world, although both the
Government and the Opposition were slow to see it. For several years
Christianity had been aggressive to an extent not previously known. The
churches had become iconoclastic; they had shut up public-houses by the
score; they had put gamblers into prison; they had insisted that brutal
husbands and fathers should be flogged; they had suspended races, and
closed music-halls, and cleared the streets of evil houses, and
altogether rendered themselves so obnoxious that through the land there
were risings of the dangerous classes, who were everywhere choosing men
after their own hearts to represent them in Parliament.
In Scourby this section of the people had chosen Mr. Richard Lavender.
He was an open reviler of religion and morality, but he was bold as well
as bad; he was clever at invective, and perfectly unscrupulous in his
words and deeds, and therefore he was a favourite with too many of the
people. They loved to hear him call names; they applauded his sneers at
religion and respectability; he was no “bloated aristocrat,” he was an
outcast, as many of them were, and they were going to stand by him, and
send him to Westminster to be a thorn in the sides of the respectables.
He appealed to the worst passions of the people, and told them that both
the aristocracy and the middle classes were tyrants and oppressors of
the poor; and the curious thing was that some of them seemed to believe
him. He roused their antagonism by reminding them of the Bills that had
been passed—that now a man could not claim his wife’s wages, or enjoy
them unless she chose to give him them; that he could not send his
children out to work, and, indeed, a man could no longer do what he
liked with his own; besides which he did not find a public-house in
every street, and often had a ten minutes’ walk before he could get his
drink. The liberty of the subject was in danger, and a stop must be put
to this sort of thing.
Mr. Lavender was one of three men who aspired to the vacant seat. There
was, of course, to be the usual fight between the Conservatives and the
Radicals. But the candidates representing the two great parties were
strangers, and had been selected and sent down by the wire-pullers in
London, while Lavender was well known, and hail-fellow-well-met to many
of the people in Scourby. This gave him a great advantage over Mr.
Smith, the Conservative, and Mr. Jones, the Liberal. On the evening of
the day in question there was to be a meeting of the supporters of the
latter, and those who were interested looked forward to it with some
misgiving. Lavender gloried in mob-law; and although there was no
society in the town that would have anything to do with him, not the
socialists, nor trades-unionists, nor any distinct organisation of the
people, it was yet known that he could count upon a considerable
following.
Many people feared that Lavender would be returned, and among them was
Dr. Stapleton.
In the midst of his ill-humour Miss Whitwell called to consult him about
one or two poor patients to whom he had been kind.
“I am looking after some of Miss Wythburn’s pet women,” she said. “I am
so bad-tempered this morning, that I thought I would go to them as a
sort of diversion; and I feel more wretched than ever now. I think there
must be a happy hereafter for the very poor, they are so joyless here.”
“But they do not wish to leave the world. Every patient wants to get
well.”
“I could take you to a woman who is praying to die, but I may not. There
are plenty of them, though. Is not this a wretched world?”
“I do not think so, neither do you, Miss Whitwell.”
“Oh, yes, I do! Why, everything is wrong. And men who have power and
strength and ability are droning away their lives doing
nothing—absolutely nothing. Why do you not lift up your voice against
the cruelty that is practised in this town?”
“I haven’t a very strong voice. It would not make much noise if I lifted
it up all day.”
“Dr. Stapleton, you are brutal!”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Whitwell. What do you want me to do? I am sure
the world is better than it ever was before.”
“I am glad I did not live in it before, then. Things seem to me
dreadfully bad now.”
“All great growths are slow. But I believe that the right is winning its
way more rapidly than slowly, and in the long run it is sure to
conquer.”
Tom Whitwell laughed. “You are repeating your creed, doctor. It is very
proper of you; but you don’t believe it this morning, do you now? One of
your patients is ill because she has had to stand twelve hours a day
selling flowers and ribbons over a draper’s counter. Another is ill
because a drunken husband brutally assaulted her; another because her
landlord did not keep his house in proper repair, and the stairs gave
way under her. A little child is dying because he has never been
properly fed; another because he has been poisoned by foul drains; and
yet another because some men treated him to several drinks of gin. And
we are sending to represent us in the House of Commons Mr. Richard
Lavender.”
Dr. Stapleton passed his hand across his brow wearily. “Did you say you
had a case on which you wished to consult me?” he asked. “Where is this
woman who will not see a doctor?”
“In Sloane-street, No. 40. But it is of no use for you to go to her, for
she will not see you. Cannot you prescribe for her without?”
“Certainly not. Can you describe her symptoms?”
“No; only she is in great pain, and seems feverish, and has no appetite,
and cannot sleep.”
“Not uncommon symptoms these. Most patients have them. Is she poor?”
“Very, and in dreadful trouble about Mary Wythburn, who was always good
to her.”
“I have a little money to give away. I will call with it, and perhaps I
shall find some way of helping her. Excuse me if I advise you to return.
The town will be neither pleasant nor safe later. What is this woman’s
name?”
“Robinson. She says a doctor’s mistake made her a widow, and that she
never knew one yet who properly understood his business. Good-bye, Dr.
Stapleton.”
Tom’s smile was full of pleasant mischief, but it soon vanished. “Poor
fellow, I am really afraid he did care for Mary,” she said. “Certainly
something is the matter with him.”
The next moment she met her cousin. “Tom,” she said, “Scourby will be no
place for you to-day.”
“That is what Dr. Stapleton has been telling me, and I am obediently
making my way home already.”
“Have you asked Stapleton to prescribe for you?”
“No; why should I? I am perfectly well. He ought to prescribe for
himself, he is looking miserably ill. Are you going to the meeting? I
wish you would call for him and take him with you.”
A few hours later Dallington and the doctor were making their way to the
hall. The people were thronging the streets and shouting “Lavender and
Liberty for ever!” Every election cry has the word liberty in it.
“Where do all these people come from?” asked Dallington. “I did not
think there were so many of this sort in the town.”
“They do not often show themselves, but these are the people we have to
reckon with. They have been left too much to themselves, and only
tolerated for the use we can make of them. They will turn upon us some
day and pay off old scores.”
“I should not wonder if they do. Take care! Here is an ugly rush! Can we
get out of it?”
Before the words had left his lips the crowd was on the two men. The
doctor was well known as a friend of the poor, and he thought that he
was rather liked by the women, who had been often helped through their
troubles by him. But there were a good many women in the crowd, and
there was no mistaking their hostile intentions towards him. He was
severely hustled, and when he turned and faced them he looked into
countenances full of malice. His hat was knocked off, his coat was torn,
and, as he was only one man against two hundred, he was not at all sure
that his life was not in danger. He had got separated from his friend,
and was wondering if he could find a way of escape, when a door was
opened, and he was drawn in by a man who had watched the scene and
resolved to help the doctor. Soon a loud knocking was heard at the
street door, and Stapleton’s name was called. The door was cautiously
opened, and a woman, half-drunk and badly cut, was thrust in. Dr.
Stapleton bound up her wounds, the woman cursing him all the while. At
length the street grew more quiet, and he reached the hall where the
meeting was to be held, and found it a scene of the greatest confusion.
The chairman’s appearance and that of the speakers called forth a storm
of hisses and groans. He tried to speak, but the people would not hear
him; neither would they allow the candidate to be heard. Evidently it
was a packed meeting of Lavender’s supporters. But there was strange
irony in their making themselves hoarse by shouting, “Liberty! Liberty!”
though, after all, it was no new thing that the liberty they wanted was
liberty to think and do as they pleased, and compel everybody else to do
the same.
Somebody uttered in a lull the name of Stapleton. “Try what you can do,”
said the chairman. “I am sure they will not hear me,” said the doctor,
“since they will not listen to you.”
And he was correct. There was a perfect yell when he rose to his feet,
and he sat down, as the others had done, without being heard. There were
a few remarks made for the benefit of the reporters, and then the
meeting concluded in an uproar, as it had commenced. Dr. Stapleton
noticed, as he went home, a little heap of stones, which he did not
remember to have seen before. He understood its meaning later. His
servants had retired, and he was reading, when he received a shock. A
shower of stones came crashing through the windows of his house,
smashing glass and breaking lamps, mirrors, and vases. One stone that,
fortunately, fell on the table instead of the person of the doctor, had
a label affixed to it, on which was written “Good-night, doctor, and
pleasant dreams to you!” Stapleton was rather comforted by this when,
having examined the house and discovered the damage done to it, he read
the inscription. “After all,” he said, “this looks more like fun than
fury.”
John Dallington’s home-going was not much more satisfactory than Dr.
Stapleton’s. He entered the door of his house with a sigh. He expected
to find the chair in the most comfortable corner of the room occupied by
William Hunter, and to see his mother looking anything but happy; and he
was agreeably surprised to find Mrs. Hunter alone. She was in an
affectionate mood, and took his arm as they went together to the
dining-room. “You must need some supper after your drive, for I heard
the sound of wheels. Why did you not ride?”
“Oh, I knew uncle would give me a lift; and, if not, I should have
enjoyed the walk.”
“Tom has been in. She is a dear girl, and very fond of you, John.”
“Yes; she is most kind and cousinly.”
Mrs. Hunter laughed softly. “I feel sure,” she said, significantly,
“that there is much more than a cousinly feeling in Tom’s heart for you.
But men are proverbially blind, and cannot see what is plainly before
them.”
“Mother, what a fanciful little woman you are! I believe you will never
give up dreaming dreams until you become a really old lady.”
“That is no dream, John, but very sober reality. And it is the great
hope of my life that you should marry Tom. So it is of hers.”
“I never shall, mother; so I trust you will at once disabuse your mind
of the thought.”
“Do not say so. You could never have a more loving and capable wife than
Tom would make. And—John—cannot you see that that would be the way out
of all your difficulties?”
John’s colour rose. “That is a way I cannot take,” he said. “That will
never, never be.”
Mrs. Hunter persisted. “It would undo the harm that I have done,” she
said, “and make me feel happy and forgiven.”
“Mother,” said John—and though he tried to be gentle his voice was
stern—“have I reproached you? There is nothing to forgive! I am sure you
only did what you felt you were obliged to do, and that you did it for
the best. I am young and strong. I shall win back every yard of my
father’s estate in a few years, if work and thought can do it. But the
trouble and the difficulty are mine, not yours, and they will not hurt
me.”
“John, why should you keep them when you can blow them away with a word
of love to Tom?”
“Simply because I cannot speak the word. What do you take me for?”
“John—I must say it, even if you are angry with me—it will break my
heart if that which I hear is true.”
“What have you heard?”
“That you are courting Margaret Miller. Who is she that she dare look at
you?” Mrs. Hunter laughed unpleasantly. “Why, nobody knows what she is,
nor where she came from; she may be the scum of the earth for all——”
“Mother,” John’s voice trembled, “you are my mother, and I love you, and
I will not be angry with you, but please never speak in that way again
of Miss Miller.” He paused a minute to steady his voice, and for debate
with himself as to whether or not he should confide in his mother, and
decided to do so. “There ought to be no secrets between us two, little
mother, for whom have we but each other? And so I will at once tell you
the truth. I have chosen Miss Miller to be my wife, and have asked her
to accept my love. I have plenty to think of besides marrying for some
years to come, but if I ever do marry, Margaret Miller will be my
bride.”
Mrs. Hunter’s eyes blazed with fury; but her son would not let her
speak. He had seen his mother in a passion before, and for her own sake
as much as his he resolved that he would not listen to her torrents of
angry words.
“Wait a moment, mother. All that I can be to you as a son I will be; but
I am a man now, and I must be allowed to choose my own friends and,
above all, my own wife.”
He left her after these words, and perhaps his heart was as heavy as his
mother’s. He was sorry to vex her; but he was himself vexed, too. It was
too bad to bring his cousin Tom into this discussion, and to suggest
that most absurd idea! There could not be a particle of truth in the
suggestion that Tom cared for him, except as a cousin; of that he was
absolutely certain. It was a pain, that was not without shame, that her
father held a mortgage on his land, but he would never redeem it in that
fashion. He knew that his uncle had obliged his mother to arrange with
him instead of a stranger, and he knew, too, that she had almost
exceeded the terms of his father’s will in what she did. It was well
that he was in the hands of an honourable relative; but the thing was a
trouble to him, for the thought of a debt was hard to bear. His case was
an exceedingly common one. How to be just as well as generous is a
problem given to many to solve.
But what troubled John Dallington more than anything was a doubt that
had crept into his mind about Margaret. He did not know what it meant,
but he felt that she was not happy with him. She appeared anxious and
afraid, and even his love could not melt away a certain coldness which
seemed to be creeping over her. Poor Margaret was fighting a battle with
herself in regard to her duty. She was uncertain as to what she ought to
do. Mrs. Hunter had been more successful with Margaret than with John
when she set herself to insinuate into the mind of each the suspicion of
Tom Whitwell’s love for her cousin. The two friends spent much time
together in London, as well as in their homes; and Margaret’s fear that
the suspicion was correct grew rather than decreased.
We have seen how busy the two girls were; but they had each plenty of
time for thought, and Margaret, after observing her friend closely, felt
convinced that she had some secret sorrow. And having made up her mind
to that, she had no difficulty in deciding what the sorrow was, nor how
it could be cured.
But Margaret had quite as much sense as sentiment. She was not a good
heroine for a novel, because she was so very much an all-round person.
She thought of John first, and then she thought of Tom, and, lastly, of
herself; and she meant to consider well before she placed her friend
irrevocably between herself and her lover. But the uncertainty was
trying; and when Mr. Dallington asked that he might declare their
engagement, Margaret said they were not really engaged, and that it was
her wish that they should not be.
“I cannot understand you, Margaret,” he replied. “I do not believe that
you are fickle, or that you did not know your own mind; and it seems to
me that since we love each other, the most honourable thing is for us to
be openly engaged. But I cannot urge you further; it would be unmanly to
do so; and if I could I would not wring from you a reluctant consent.
But I will not at present believe that you finally reject me. Do not be
alarmed; I am not going to persecute you with unwelcome attentions; but
I shall ask you again, for I cannot give up the hope of years even at
your bidding; and some day, perhaps, you will explain to me the reasons
for this change. Pardon me, I am sure there is something which you are
keeping from me to-day, and that you would not quite treat me as you are
doing if the reasons which you have stated were the only ones.”
John Dallington had reached the Old House in excellent spirits, but
Margaret had astounded and pained him beyond measure. He little guessed
how difficult had been the task to Margaret; but how could she tell him
either that his mother had written an anonymous letter to her, or that
she felt warranted in believing that his cousin’s happiness would be
jeopardised if she agreed to his wishes? Since her talk with Harris she
did not dare to lay quite the same stress upon the old doubt as to her
parentage, but she hinted at it again and Dallington would not allow her
to proceed. “You are yourself and that is enough for me,” he said; but
Margaret was very resolute, and he was leaving her, if not in anger, in
keen and sorrowful displeasure.
And then, woman-like, her heart failed her.
“Let us be friends,” she said. “And do believe that I care more for your
happiness than my own.”
He was very gentle; but he held her hands, and compelled her to lift her
eyes to his face.
“I do believe,” he said, “that you are not doing this for your
happiness. For some inexplicable cause you think it your duty; but you
are mistaken. Friends? Yes, certainly, let us be friends, and very near
and dear ones.”
“That is not what I mean,” said Margaret. But her strength seemed
suddenly to fail her, and she left him abruptly.
Ann Johnson watched her as she hastened to her own room, and she thought
she heard a sob as the door closed. She wondered what it meant. She
liked the young Squire of Darentdale, and thought him almost good enough
for Margaret; but there was no knowing, and she resolved to fortify her
against him in case he was not all he seemed; she therefore took an
opportunity to relate one of her stories.
“I shouldn’t like to travel. I should be afraid it would hurt my morals.
I knowed a man who lived abroad, and a nicer man before he went there
couldn’t be, nor a kinder. I seen him the day afore he went, and I seen
him the day after he come back. He were altered then, for he had a scar
on his face. I says to him, ‘How come them beauty spots on you?’ and he
says, ‘Oh, it were a bird that scratted me with her sharp tallions’; but
whether it were the truth I don’t know. He didn’t always tell the truth;
for he pretended to fall in love with a lady as I knows, and he proposed
to her, and then he set to work to steal her heart away. And he stole
it, too; and they was going to be married—it was almost as close as Miss
Wythburn’s wedding—and then a woman come as proved as she were his
lawful wedded wife. And all the while he had been that proper—not a bit
trivial, nor nothing of that, but pious enough to deceive a saint. My
opinion is as few men can stand them foreign parts; so you be careful,
dearie.”
Ann Johnson’s stories always made Margaret laugh, and they did now,
though she was sadly wondering where John was, and what he was thinking
of her.