Six o'clock in the morning; and the great bell of the works of North and Gass was ringing out upon the morning air! It was a bell Dallory had not heard of late, and sleepy people turned in their beds. Many had been listening for it, knowing it was going to be rung; some got up and looked from their windows to see whether the street became lively with workmen, or whether it remained silent.
Richard North was within the works. He had come out thus early, hoping to welcome his men. Three or four entered with him. The bell rang its accustomed time, and then ceased; its sound dying away, and leaving a faint echo on the air. There was no other answer: the men had not responded to the call. Nothing more, than that faint vibration of sound remained to tell of the appeal made by Richard North.
Richard North threw up the proposed contract; and proceeded on a journey without loss of time. Some said he went to Scotland, some to Belgium; but the utmost known about it was that his departure had reference to business. But that he was a temperate man, and given to pity as much as to blame, he could have cursed the men's blind folly. What was to become of them? The work was there, and they drove it away from their doors, driving all chance with it of regaining prosperity. They were forcing him to supersede them: they were bringing despair, famine, death upon a place where content and comfort had once reigned. Yes, death: as you will find. Surely never did greater blindness than this fall on man!
Days went on, and grew into weeks: and Richard North was still absent. Prospects seemed to be looking gloomy on all sides. To make matters worse, some cases of fever began to manifest themselves at Dallory. Dr. Rane and his brother practitioner, Mr. Seeley, only wondered that something of the sort had not broken out before.
Amidst other places that wore an air of gloom was the interior of Dallory Hall. Madam's insatiable demands for money had been very partially responded to of late: not at all since the absence of Richard. Even she, with all her imperious scorn of whence supplies came, provided they did come, began to realize the fact that gold can no more be drawn from exhausted coffers than blood from a stone. It did not tend to improve her temper.
She sat one morning in what she was pleased to call her boudoir--a charming apartment opening from her dressing-room. Several letters lay before her, brought up by her maid: she had carelessly tossed them aside for some hours, but was getting to them now when it was nearing midday. Not very pleasant letters, any of them, to judge by madam's dark face. One was from Sidney at Homburg, piteously imploring for assistance--which had not recently been sent him; two or three were rather urgent demands for the payment of private accounts of madam's rather long delayed; one was a polite excuse from Frank Dallory and his sister for not accepting a dinner invitation. There was not a single pleasant letter amongst them all.
"I wonder what Dick North means by staying away like this!--and leaving orders at Ticknells' that no cheques are to be cashed!" growled madam in soliloquy. "He ought to be here. He ought to force those miserable men of his back to work, whether they will or not. He's away; Arthur's away; Sidney's away: and with this uncertain state of things out of doors and trouble within, the house is worse than a dungeon. People seem to be neglecting it: even Mary Dallory stays without the gates. That girl's an artful flirt: as Matilda said yesterday. If Arthur and Dick were back she'd come fast enough: I should like to know which of the two she most cares for. It is absurd, though, to speak of her in conjunction with Dick North! I think I'll go off somewhere for a time. Should this suspicion of fever prove correct, the place will not be safe. I shall want a hundred pounds or two. And Sidney must have money. He says he'll do something desperate if I don't send it--but he has said that before. Confound it all! Why does not gold grow upon trees?"
Madam's dress this morning was a striped lilac silk of amazing rustle and richness. Letting it all out behind her, she went down the stairs and through the hall, sweeping the dust along in a little cloud. Mr. North was not in his parlour; madam went about looking for him.
To her surprise she found him in the drawing-room; it was not often he ventured into that exclusive place. He had a shabby long coat on, and a straw hat. Madam's scornful head went up when she saw him there.
"What do you want?" she asked in a tone that plainly said he had about as much right in the room as an unwelcome stranger.
"I have come to beg some cotton of Matilda to tie up these flowers," was Mr. North's answer. "Thomas Hepburn's little boy is here, and I thought I'd give the child a posy."
"A posy!" repeated madam, scorning the homely term.
"I have no cotton," said Matilda, who lay back in a chair, reading. "What should bring cotton in a drawing-room?"
"Oh well--I can bind it with a piece of variegated grass," said Mr. North with resignation. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Matilda."
"And when you have disposed of your 'posy,' I am coming to your parlour," said madam.
Mr. North groaned as he went out. He knew that his peace was about to be destroyed for the day. There were moments when he thought heart and brain must give way under home worries and madam's.
"When did this come?" enquired madam, pointing to a letter that was placed upright on the mantelpiece: one addressed to Richard North, in her son Arthur's writing.
"This morning," shortly answered Matilda, not looking up from her book.
"Yes, Arthur can write often enough to Dick. This is the second letter that has come for him within a week. What did you do with the other?" madam broke off to ask.
"Put it into Dick's room until he comes home."
"But Arthur does not trouble himself to write to us, or to let us know anything of his movements," resumed madam. "We have not had a syllable from him since he sent word that old Bohun was dead. Is he still in London?--or at his aunt's?--or where?"
"I'm sure I don't know where," retorted Matilda, irritated at being interrupted.
Neither did she care. Madam turned the letter over in idle curiosity: but the postmark was not to be deciphered. Leaving it on the mantelpiece, she went to look after Mr. North. He stood on the lawn, doing something to a dwarf-tree of small and beautiful roses. There was some wind to-day, and his long coat waved a little in the breeze.
"Did you hear what I said--that I was coming to your parlour?" demanded madam, swooping down upon him majestically. "Money must be had. I want it; Sidney wants it; the house wants it. I----"
Mr. North had straightened himself. Desperation gave him a little courage.
"I would give it you if I had it. I have always given it you. But what is to be done when I have it not? You must see that it is not my fault, madam."
"I see that when money is needed it is your place to find it," coolly returned madam. "Sidney cannot live upon air. He has----"
"It seems to me that he lives upon gold," Mr. North interrupted in querulous tones. "There's no end to it."
"Sidney must have money," equably went on madam. "I must have it, for I purpose going away for a time. You will therefore----"
"Goodness me! here's the telegraph man."
This second interruption was also from Mr. North. Telegraphic messages were somewhat rare at Dallory Hall; and its master went into a flutter. His fears flew to his well-beloved son, Dick. The messenger was coming up the broad walk, a despatch in his hand. Mr. North advanced to meet him; madam sailing behind.
"It is for Captain Bohun, sir," spoke up the man, perceiving something of Mr. North's agitation.
"For Captain Bohun!" interposed madam. "Where's it from?"
"London, madam."
Motioning the messenger to go to the house for his receipt, she tore it open without the smallest ceremony, and read its contents:
"Dr. Williams to Arthur Bohun, Esq.:
"James Bohun is dying. Sir Nash wishes you to come up without delay."
Looking to right and left, stood madam, her thoughts busy. Where could Arthur be? Why had he left London?
"Doyouknow?" she roughly asked of Mr. North.
"Know what, madam?"
"Where Arthur Bohun is."
Mr. North stared a little. "Why, how should I know?" he asked. "It's ever so long since Arthur wrote to me. He sends me messages when he writes to Dick."
Madam swept into the drawing-room. She took the letter from the mantelpiece, and coolly broke its black seal. Even Matilda's scruples were aroused at this.
"Oh, mamma, don't!" she exclaimed, starting up and putting her hand over the letter. "Don't open that. It would not be right."
Madam dexterously twitched the letter away, carried it to the window and read it from end to end. Matilda saw her face turn ghastly through its paint, as if with fright.
"Serves her right," thought the young lady. "Mamma, what is amiss?"
Madam crumpled the letter into a ball in her agitated hand: but no answer came from her white lips. Turning abruptly up the stairs, she locked herself into her chamber.
"She is in an agony of fright--whatever the cause may be," quoth Miss Matilda, in soliloquy.
Ere the day had closed, the household was called upon to witness madam's sudden departure by train. She went alone: and gave not the slightest clue as to where she might be going, or when she would return.
Matilda North had aptly worded the paroxysm: "an agony of fright." She might have added: a tempest of fury; for madam was in both. For that letter had given her the news of Arthur Bohun's present locality--and that he was by the side of Ellen Adair. What had become of Dick? the letter asked. He must hasten and come, or he would be too late. Madam did not understand at all. There followed a mysterious intimation to Dick; to Dick, whom Arthur so trusted and who was true as steel; it was more obscure even than the rest; but it seemed to hint at--yes, to hint at--marriage. Marriage? Madam felt her flesh creeping.
"A son of mine marryher!" she breathed. "Heaven help me to avert the danger."
About the last woman, one would think, who ought to call for help from Heaven.
The tide came rippling up on the sea-shore with a monotonous, soothing murmur. There were no waves to-day; the air was densely still; but in the western sky little black clouds were rising, no bigger yet than a man's hand; and as the weatherwise old fishermen glanced to the spot, they foretold a storm.
Two people, pacing the beach side by side, regarded neither the sea nor the threatened storm. Need you be told that they were Arthur Bohun and Ellen Adair. What were the winds and the waves to them in their happiness? Amidst the misery that was soon to set in for both, the recollection of this short time spent at Eastsea, these few weeks since their love had been declared, and their marriage was approaching, would seem as an impossible dream.
The private marriage, consented to by Mrs. Cumberland, must not be confounded with a secret marriage. It was to be kept from the world in general: but not from every friend they possessed. Mrs. Cumberland intended to be present as Ellen's guardian; and she very much urged that some friend of Arthur's should also attend. He acquiesced, and fixed on Richard North. Captain Bohun purposed to tell his aunt, Miss Bohun, his friend in every way: but not until the wedding was over: he would trust no one beforehand, he said, excepting Mrs. Cumberland and Dick. Even Dick he did not trust yet. He commanded Dick's presence at Eastsea, telling him that his coming was imperative: there must be no refusal. Finding Dick did not respond, Arthur wrote again; but still only mysteriously. The first letter was the one put aside by Miss Matilda North, the second was that opened by madam.
But there were moments when, in spite of his happiness, Arthur Bohun had qualms of conscience for his precipitation: more especially did they press upon him immediately after the marriage was decided upon. For, after all, he really knew nothing, or as good as nothing, of Mr. Adair's position: and the proud Bohun blood bubbled up a little, as a thought crossed him that it was just possible he might find too late that, in point of family, hers was not fitting to have mated with his.
The human heart is treacherous: given over to self-deception, and to sophistry. So long as a thing is coveted, when it seems almost unattainable, we see nothing but the advantages of gaining it, the happiness it must bring. But, let this desire be attained, and lo! we veer round, and repent our haste. Instantly every argument that could bear against it, true or false, rises up within us with mocking force, and we say, Oh that I had waited before doing this thing! It is that deceitful heart of ours that is in fault, nothing else; placing upon all things its own false colouring.
At first, as they sat together under cover of the rocks, or on the more open benches on the sands, or wandered to the inland walks and the rural lanes, his conversation would turn on Mr. Adair. But Ellen seemed to know as little of her father as he did.
"It is strange you don't remember more of him, Ellen!" he suddenly said on one occasion when he was alone with her at Mrs. Cumberland's.
"Strange! Do you think so?" returned Ellen, turning from the bay window where she was standing. "I was sent to Europe at eight years old, and children at that age so soon forget. I seem to recollect a gentleman in some sort of white coat, who cried over me and kissed me, and said mamma was gone to live in heaven. His face was a pleasant one, and he had bright hair; something the colour of yours."
She thought Arthur had alluded to personal appearance. But he had not meant that.
"I remember another thing--that papa used to say I was just like my mother, and should grow up like her," resumed Ellen. "It seems ages ago. Perhaps when I see him I shall find that my memory has given me an ideal father, and that he is quite different from what I have pictured him."
"You know none of your Scotch relatives, Ellen?"
"None."
"Or where they live?"
"No."
"Why does not Mr. Adair come home?"
"I don't know. He has been thinking of it for some years; and that's why I am with Mrs. Cumberland instead of going out to him again. I am sure he must have a very high opinion of Mrs. Cumberland," added Ellen, after a pause. "His letters prove it. And he often mentions her late husband as his dear friend and chaplain. I will show you some of his letters, if you like. Would you care to see them? I keep all papa's letters."
Arthur Bohun's face lighted up at the proposition. "Yes," he said with animation. "Yes. As many as you please."
She crossed the room to her desk, took out three or four letters indiscriminately from a bundle lying there, and brought them to him. He detained the pretty hands as well as the letters, and took some impassioned kisses from the blushing face, turned up unconsciously to his. Sweeter kisses than Arthur Bohun would ever impress upon any other face in afterlife. Ellen had almost learned not to shrink from them in her maiden modesty; he vowed to her that they were now his best right and privilege.
But the letters told him nothing. They were evidently a gentleman's letters; but of the writer's position or family they said not a word. Arthur returned them with a half-sigh: it was of no use, he thought, to trouble himself any more about the matter. After all, his own father and Mr. Adair had been close friends in India, and that was a sort of guarantee that all must be right. This decided, he delivered himself up to his ideal happiness: and the wedding day was finally settled.
This afternoon, when they were pacing the beach, unobservant of the little clouds rising in the west, was the marriage eve. It is the last day they need thus walk together as mere formal acquaintances: for at that little church whose spire is not a stone's-throw away, they will tomorrow be made man and wife. A strange light sits on Arthur Bohun's cheek; the light of intense happiness. The day and the hour are drawing near to its realization: and not so much as a thought has crossed his mind that any untoward fate can arise to mar it.
Ah, might not those dark clouds have read him a lesson? Just as the small circlets out there might gather into an overwhelming storm, before which both man and beast must bow their heads, so might be rising, even then, some threatening wave in the drama of his life. And it was so: though he suspected it not. Even now, as they walked, the clouds were increasing! just as the unseen thunderstorm was about to descend upon their lives and hearts. Suddenly, in turning to face the west, Arthur noticed the altered aspect of the sky.
"Look at those clouds, getting up! I hope the weather's not going to change for us tomorrow, Ellen. What does that mean?" he asked of a man who was doing something to his small boat, now high and dry upon the beach.
The sailor glanced up indifferently.
"It means a storm, master."
"Shall we get it here, do you think?"
"Ay, sir. Not till tomorrow, maybe. I fancy we shall, though"--giving a look round, as if he could see the storm in the air. "I knowed there was going to be a change."
"How did you know it?"
"Us fishermen sees a storm afore it comes, master. My foot tells it me besides. I got him jammed once, and he have had the weather in him ever since."
They walked on. "That will be two untoward events for us," remarked Captain Bohun; but he spoke with a smile, as if no untoward events could mar their happiness. "We want a third to complete it, don't we, Ellen?"
"What are the two?"
"The bad weather threatened for tomorrow; and Dick's non-arrival is the other. I am vexed at that."
For, on this same morning, Mrs. Cumberland had received a letter from her son. Amidst other items of news, Dr. Rane mentioned that Richard North was absent: it was supposed in Belgium, but no one knew positively where. This explained Richard's silence to Captain Bohun, and put an end to the hope that Richard would be at the wedding. Dr. Rane also stated another thing, which was anything but pleasant news: that beyond all doubt fever was breaking out at Dallory, though it was not yet publicly known. The doctor added that he feared it would prove of a malignant type, and he felt glad that his mother was away. Bessy was well, and sent her love.
"Will you rest a little before going in?"
They were passing the favourite old seat under the rocks. Ellen acquiesced, and they sat down. The black clouds grew larger and higher: but, absorbed in their own plans, their own happiness, had the heavens become altogether overshadowed it would have been as nothing to them. In low tones they conversed together of the future; beginning with the morrow, ending they knew not where. Their visions were of the sweetest rose-colour; they fully believed that bliss so great as their own had never been found on earth. His arm was round Ellen as they sat, her hand lay in his, her head seemed resting against his heart. To all intents and purposes they seemed as entirely alone in this sheltered nook as they could have been in the wilds of the desert. The beach was shingly; footsteps could not approach without being heard: had any one passed, they would have been seen sitting as decorously apart as though they had quarrelled: but the shore seemed deserted this afternoon.
The arrangement for the marriage was as follows:--At half-past eleven o'clock, Arthur, Ellen, and Mrs. Cumberland would enter the little church by a private door, and the ceremony would take place. Richard North was to have given her away, but that was over now. Arthur held the licence; he had made a friend of the clergyman, and all would be done quietly. He and Ellen were to go away for a few days; she would then return home with Mrs. Cumberland, and be to the world still as Miss Adair. After that, Arthur would take his own time, and be guided by circumstances for declaring the marriage: but he meant, if possible, to at once introduce Ellen to his aunt, Miss Bohun.
And Ellen Adair? Not a scruple rested on her mind, not a doubt or hesitation on her heart; her father had given his cordial approbation--as expressed in the letter to Mrs. Cumberland--and she was full of peace.
"Did you feel that, Ellen?"
A faint, quivering breeze had seemed to pass over them with sudden sharpness, and to die away in a moan.
Some white sails out at sea flapped a little, and the boats turned homewards.
"We had better be going, too, my love; or we may have it upon us."
She rose as he spoke, and they walked away. The sky was growing darker; the shades of evening were beginning to gather. Mrs. Cumberland had been lying down and was dressing, the maid said--if Captain Bohun would wait. Ellen took off her bonnet and mantle.
"Whilst we are alone, let me see that I have not made a mistake in the size, Ellen."
Taking from his pocket a bit of tissue-paper, he unfolded it and disclosed a wedding-ring. Ellen blushed vividly as he tried it on. "I--thought," she timidly began, "that you meant this to be my wedding-ring"--indicating the plain gold one she habitually wore on her right hand.
"No. Rane bought that one. This will be mine."
It fitted exactly. Captain Bohun had not allowed for the probability of those fragile fingers growing larger with years. As he held it on for a minute, their eyes met. Ellen suddenly recalled that long-past day in Dallory Church, when she had taken off Maria Warne's ring for Bessy North, the after-scene in the carriage, when Arthur Bohun put the other one on, and his sweet words: lastly, the scene in the garden when he put it on again. This was time the third.
"If this should ever become too small for me?" she murmured, as he took it off the finger.
"Oh, but that--if ever--won't be for ages and ages."
Not for ages, and ages! If, in their innocent unconsciousness, they could only have seen the cruel Fate that was already coiling its meshes around them!
The storm did not come that night. But whether, in revenge for the delay, it chose to expend itself with double violence, certain it was that such a storm had seldom been seen at Eastsea as raged in the morning. The sky was lurid and angry; the sea tossed itself in great waves; the wind whistled and shrieked; the rain dashed furiously down at intervals: all nature seemed at warfare.
In much distress lay Mrs. Cumberland. Exceedingly subject of late to outer influences, whether it might be the storm that affected her, she knew not, but she felt unable to rise from her bed. The hour for the marriage was drawing on. It had been fixed for half-past eleven. The clergyman had a funeral at half-past ten; and Mrs. Cumberland had said that she herself could not be ready before that time. At a little after eleven Arthur Bohun came up in the fly that was to convey them to church. Mrs. Cumberland sent to ask him to go upstairs to her; and he found her in tears. A curious eight in so self-contained a woman.
"I cannot help it, Captain Bohun: indeed I cannot. Had not the marriage better be put off for a day? I may be better tomorrow."
"Certainly not," he answered. "Why should it be put off? I am very sorry for Ellen's sake; she would have felt happier had you been in church. But your presence is not essential to the ceremony, Mrs. Cumberland."
"Her father and mother were my dear friends. It seems as though I should fail in my duty if I were to allow her to go to church without me."
Arthur Bohun laughed. He would not listen to a word--was it likely that he would do so? In less than an hour's time all responsibility in regard to Ellen would be transferred to himself, he answered, for he should be her husband.
"The marriage will be perfectly legal, dear Mrs. Cumberland, though you do not witness it," were his last words as he went downstairs.
Ellen was ready. She wore an ordinary silk dress of light quiet colour, and a plain white bonnet: such as she might have walked out in at Eastsea. There was nothing, save her pale face and quivering lips, to denote that she was a bride. To have to go to church alone was very unpalatable to her, and she could with difficulty suppress her tears.
"My dearest love, I am more grieved at it for your sake than you can be," he whispered. "Take a little courage, Ellen; it will soon be over. Once you are my wife, I will strive to shelter you from all vexation."
But this illness of Mrs. Cumberland's made a slight alteration in the programme. For Arthur Bohun to go out with Mrs. Cumberland and Ellen in a fly, was nothing; he sometimes accompanied them in their drives: but to go out alone with Ellen, and in that storm, would have excited the curiosity of Ann and the other servants. Arthur Bohun rapidly decided to walk to church, braving the rain: Ellen must follow in the fly. There was no time to be lost. It was twenty minutes past eleven.
"Shall I put you in the carriage first, Ellen?" he stayed to ask.
"No. I think you had better not."
"My darling, youwill come?"
Did a doubt cross him, that he should say this? But she answered that she would: he saw she spoke sincerely. He wrung her hand and went out to the door.
Had the fly multiplied itself into two flies?--and were they squabbling for precedence? Certainly two were there: and the one wet driver was abusing the other wet driver for holding his place before the door, and not allowing him to draw up to it.
"Arthur! Good Heavens, how fortunate I am! Arthur Bohun! don't you see me?"
Every drop of blood in Arthur Bohun's veins seemed to stand still and turn to ice as he recognized his mother's voice and his mother's face. Madam, driven hastily from the railway-station, had come to bear him off bodily. That his wedding was over for that day, instinct at once told him: she would have gone to church and forbidden the banns. He stepped to the fly door.
In afterlife, he could never clearly recall these next few minutes. Madam spoke of the telegram that had been received at Dallory. She said--giving to matters her own colouring--that James Bohun was in extremity; that he only waited to see Arthur to die; that he was asking for him: not a moment was to be lost. She had hastened to London on receipt of the telegram, and had now come down to fetch him.
"Step in, Arthur. We must catch the quarter-to-twelve train."
"I--I cannot go," he answered.
"Not go!" screamed madam. "But I command you to go. Would you disobey the last wishes of a dying man?"
Well, no; he felt that he could not do that. "A quarter to twelve?" he said rather dreamily. "You must wait, madam, whilst I speak to Mrs. Cumberland. There's plenty of time."
He went in with his tale, and up to Mrs. Cumberland, as one in a dream. He was forced to go, he bewailed, but not for more than a day, when he should be back to complete the marriage. What could she answer? In her bewilderment, she scarcely understood what had happened. Leaping downstairs again, he closed the door of the sitting-room upon himself and Ellen, and clasped her to his heart.
"My darling! But for this, you would have been on your way to become my wife. Come what may, Ellen, I shall be down again within a few hours. God bless you, my love! Take care of these."
They were the ring and licence; he handed them to her lest he might lose them. Before Ellen could recover herself, whilst yet her face was glowing with his farewell kisses, he was being rattled away in the fly with madam to the station.
Crafty madam! Waiting in the fly at the door and making her observations, she had read what the signs meant almost as surely as though she had been told. The other fly waiting, and Ellen dressed; going out in it on that stormy day; Arthur out of mourning, his attire covered with a light overcoat. She guessed the truth (aided by the mysterious hint in the letter she had opened) and believed surely that nothing less than a MARRIAGE had she interrupted. Not a word said she on the way to the station. Getting him away was a great victory: it would not do to risk marring it. But when they were in the train, and the whistle had sounded, and they were fairly off, then madam spoke. They had the compartment to themselves.
"Arthur, you cannot deceive me: any attempt to do so would be useless. You were about to marry Ellen Adair."
She spoke quietly, almost affectionately; when the bosom is beating with a horrible dread, it produces calmness of manner rather than passion. For a single moment there wavered in Arthur Bohun's mind a doubt as to whether it should be avowal or evasion, but not for longer. As it had come to this, why he must take his standing, He raised his head proudly.
"Eight, mother. I am going to wed Ellen Adair."
Madam's pulses began to beat nineteen to the dozen. Her head grew hot, her hands cold.
"Youwere, you mean, Arthur."
"Yes. Put it as you like. What was interrupted to-day, will be concluded tomorrow. As soon as I have seen James, I shall return to Eastsea."
"Arthur! Arthur Bohun! It must never be concluded, Never."
"Pardon me, mother. I am my own master."
"A Bohun may not wed shame and disgrace."
"Shame and disgrace cannot attach toher. Madam, I must beg you to remember that in a few hours that young lady will be my wife. Do not try my temper too sorely."
"No, not to her, but to her father," panted madam--and Arthur felt frightened, he knew not why, at her strong emotion. "Would you wed the daughter of a--a----"
Madam paused. Arthur looked at her; his compressed lips trembled just a little.
"Of a what, mother? Pray go on."
"Of everything that is bad. A forger. A convict."
There was a dead pause. Nothing to be heard but the whirling train. "A--what?" gasped Captain Bohun, when he could get back his breath.
"A CONVICT," burst forth madam in a scream; for her agitation was becoming irrepressible. "Why do you make me repeat painful things?"
"Mother! Of whom do you speak?"
"Of her father: William Adair."
He fell back in the carriage as one who is shot. As one from whom life and all that can make it sweet, had suddenly gone out for ever.
The funerals were going about in Dallory. Dr. Rane's prognostications had proved correct; the fever was severe. It spread, and a panic set in.
As yet it had been confined to the poor. To those who for some months now had been living in despair and poverty. Some called it a famine fever; some a relapsing fever; some typhus fever: but, whatever the name accorded to it, one thing was certain--it was of a malignant and fatal type.
It possessed a somewhat singular feature: it had seemed to break out all at once--in a single night. Before the doctors had well ascertained that anything of the kind was in the air, before most of the public had so much as heard of it, it came upon them. The probability of course was that it had been smouldering for some days. On the afternoon that witnessed madam's departure from Dallory Hall--after the receipt of the telegram and the reading of Dick's letter--there had not been one decided case: in the morning no less than seven cases had shown themselves. After that, it spread rapidly.
Madam remained away. James Bohun was dead, and she stayed with Sir Nash. Matilda North, taking French leave, went up to join her without an invitation; she did not care to stay in the midst of the sickness. So the master of Dallory Hall was alone, and enjoyed his liberty as much as trouble had left him any capacity for enjoyment.
A week or ten days had passed on since the outbreak, and the funerals were going about Dallory. The two medical men, Dr. Rane and Mr. Seeley, were worked nearly off their legs. The panic was at its height. Dallory had been an exceptionally healthy place: people were not used to this state of things, and grew frightened. Some of the better families took flight, for the seaside, or elsewhere. The long-continued distress, resulting on the strike, had predisposed the poorer classes for it. It was they whom it chiefly attacked, but there were now two or three cases amongst their betters. This was no time for the medical men to speculate whether they should or should not be paid; they put all such considerations aside, and gave the poor sufferers their best care. Dr. Rane in particular was tenderly assiduous with his patients. In spite of that fatal letter and the mistake--nay, the sin--it involved, he was a humane man. Were he a successful practitioner, making his hundreds or his thousands a-year, as might be, he would be one of the first and readiest to give away largely of his time and skill to any who could not afford to pay him.
The last person whom the fever had attacked was one of the brothers Hepburn, of Dallory, undertakers, carpenters, and coffin-makers. Both were sickly men, but very steady and respectable. The younger brother, Henry, was the one seized: it was universally assumed that he caught it in the discharge of certain of the duties of his calling, and the supposition did not tend to decrease the public panic. Dr. Rane thought him a bad subject for the illness, and did all he could for him.
Bessy Rane stood in her kitchen, making an apple pudding. It is rather a sudden transition of subject, from sickness to puddings, but only in accordance with life. Whatever calamity may be decimating society around, the domestic routine of existence goes on at home in its ordinary course. Molly Green was pudding-maker in general: but Molly was hastening over her other work that day, for she had obtained leave to go home in the evening to see her mother: a woman who had been ailing for years with chronic illness, and lived at Whitborough. So Bessy this morning took the pudding upon herself.
Mrs. Rane stood at the table; a brown holland apron tied over her light morning gown, her sleeves turned up to the middle of her delicate arms. Hands and wrists and arms were alike pretty and refined. The apples were in a basin, ready pared, and she was rolling out the crust. Ever and anon she glanced at the kitchen clock. Her husband had been called out at four o'clock that morning, and she was growing a little anxious. Now it was close upon eleven. It cannot be said that Bessy was afraid of the fever for him: she shared in the popular belief that medical men are generally exempt from infection; but she was always glad to see him arrive home safe and well.
His latch-key was heard in the door whilst she was thinking of him. Dr. Rane went straight up to the unused top-room, changed his clothes, and washed his hands and face--a precaution he always took when he had been with fever patients. Bessy put the kitchen-door open, that he might see her when he came down.
"Pudding-making, Bessy!" he cried, looking in. "Why don't you let Molly do that?"
"Molly's busy. She wants to go home this evening, Oliver, as soon as we can spare her, and will not come back until tomorrow night. She received a letter this morning to say her mother has at last taken to her bed, and the doctor thinks her very ill. I have given her leave to go."
"But how shall you manage without her?"
"I shall have old Phillis in. Molly has been to her, and she says she'll be glad to come."
Dr. Rane said no more. It was quite the same to him whether Molly or Phillis did what was wanted. When men are harassed in spirit, they cannot concern themselves with the petty details of domestic life.
"I was thinking, Oliver, that--if you don't mind--as we can have Phillis, I would leave it to Molly whether to come back tomorrow night, or not. If her mother is really growing worse, the girl may like to stay a day longer with her."
"My dear, do just as you like about it," was the doctor's rather impatient answer.
"Your breakfast shall be ready in a moment, Oliver."
"I have taken breakfast. It was between eight and nine before I could get away from Ketler's, and I went and begged some of Mrs. Gass. After that I went the round of the patients."
Bessy was putting the crust into the basin. She lifted her hands and turned in some dismay.
"Surely, Oliver, they have not got the fever at Ketler's!"
Dr. Rane laughed slightly. "Not the fever, Bessy: something else. The baby. It was Ketler who called me up this morning."
"Oh dear," said Bessy, going on with her pudding. "I thought that poor baby was not expected for a month or two. How will they manage to keep it? It seems to me that the less food there is for them, the quicker the babies come."
"That's generally the case," observed Dr. Rane.
"Is the mother well?"
"Tolerably so."
"And--how are the other things going on, Oliver?"
He knew, by the tone of her voice, that she meant the fever. Bessy never spoke of that without a kind of timidity.
"Neither better nor worse. It's very bad still."
"And fatal?"
"Yes, and fatal. Henry Hepburn is in danger."
"But he will get over it?" rejoined Bessy quickly.
"I don't think so. His brother will have it next if he does not mind. He is as nervous over it as he can be. I am off now, Bessy, up the Ham."
"You will be in to dinner?"
"Before that, I hope."
Bessy settled to her pudding again, and the doctor departed. Not into danger this time, for the fever had not yet shown itself in Dallory Ham. Scarcely a minute had elapsed when the door-bell rang, and Molly went to answer it. Mrs. Rane, her hands all flour, peeped from the kitchen, and saw Mr. North.
"Oh papa! How glad I am to see you! Do you mind coming in here?"
Mind! Mr. North felt far more at home in Bessy's kitchen than in his wife's grand drawing-room. He had brought a small open basket of lovely hot-house flowers for Bessy. He put it on the table, and sat down on one of the wooden chairs in peace and comfort. Richard had not returned, and he was still alone.
"Go on with your pudding, my dear. Don't mind me. I like to see it."
"It's all but done, papa. Molly will tie it up. Oh, these beautiful flowers!" she added, bending down to them. "How kind of you to think of me!"
"I'm going to Ham Court about some seeds, child; the walk will do me good, this pleasant day. I feel stronger and better, Bessy, than I did."
"I am so glad of that, papa."
"And so I thought--as I intended to call in here--that I would cut a few blossoms, and bring them with me. How's the fever getting on, Bessy?"
"It is not any better, I am afraid, papa."
"So I hear. They say that Henry Hepburn's dying."
Bessy felt startled. "Oh, I trust not! Though I think--I fear--Oliver has not very much hope of him."
"Well, I've heard it. And I came here, Bessy, to ask if you would not like to come to the Hall for a week or two. It might be safer for you. Are you at all afraid of catching it, child?"
"N--o," answered Bessy. But it was spoken doubtfully, and Mr. North looked at her.
"Your husband has to be amongst it pretty well every hour of his life, and I can only think there must be some risk in it for you. You had better come to the Hall."
"Oliver is very careful to change his clothes when he comes in; hut still I know there must of course be some little risk," she said. "I try to be quite brave, and not think of it, papa: and I have a great piece of camphor here"--touching the bosom of her dress--"at which Oliver laughs."
"Which is as good as confessing that you are nervous about it, Bessy," said Mr. North.
"Not very, pupa. A doctor's wife, you know, must not have fancies."
"Well, come up to the Hall to-day, Bessy. It will be a change for you, and pleasant for me, now I'm alone; it will be like some of the old days come back again, you and me together. As to Oliver, I dare say he'll be glad to have the house to himself a bit, whilst he is so busy."
Bessy, wiping the flour off her hands, consented. In point of fact, her husband had proposed, some days ago, that she should go away: and she did feel half afraid of taking the fever through him.
"But it cannot be until tomorrow, papa," she said, as Mr. North rose to depart, and she accompanied him to the door, explaining that Molly was going home. "I should not like to leave Oliver alone in the house for the night. Phillis will be here tomorrow: she can stay and sleep, should Molly Green not return."
"Very well," said Mr. North.
So it was left. Bessy opened the door for her father, and watched him on his way up the Ham.
Dr. Rane came back to dinner; and found his patients allowed him an hour's peace for it. Bessy informed him of the arrangement she had made: and that he was to be a bachelor from the morrow for an indefinite period. The doctor laughed, making a jest of it: nevertheless he glanced keenly from under his eyelids at his wife.
"Bessy! I do believe you are afraid!"
"No, not exactly," was her answer: "I don't think 'afraid' is the right word. It is just this, Oliver: I do not get nervous about it; but I cannot help remembering rather often that you may bring it home to me."
"Then, my dear, go--go by all means where you will be out of harm's way, so far as I am concerned."
Dinner over, Dr. Rane hastened out again, on his way to see Mrs. Ketler. He had just reached that bench in the shady part of the road at the neck of the Ham, when he saw Jelly coming along. The doctor only wished there was some shelter to dart into, by which he might avoid her. Ever since the night when he had heard that agreeable conversation as he sat under the cedar-tree, Jelly's keen green eyes had been worse than poison to him. She stopped when she met him.
"So that child of Susan Ketler's is come, sir!"
"Ay," said Dr. Rane.
"What in the world brings it here now?"
"Well, I don't know," returned the doctor. "Children often come without giving their friends due notice. I am on my way there."
"And not as much as a bed gown to wrap it in," resentfully went on Jelly, "and not a bit of tea or oatmeal in the place for her! My faith! baby after baby coming into the world, and the men out on strike! This makes seven--if they'd all been alive: she'll be contented perhaps when she has seventeen."
"It is the way of the world, Jelly. Set up the children first, and consider what to do with them afterwards."
"What's this that's the matter with Tim Wilks, sir?" demanded Jelly, abruptly changing the subject.
"With Tim Wilks! I did not know that anything was the matter with him."
"Yes, there is," said Jelly. "I met old Green just now, and he said Timothy Wilks was in bed ill. They thought it might be a bilious attack, if it was not the fever."
"I'll call in and see him," said Dr. Rane. "Has he been drinking again?"
Jelly's eyes flashed with resentment. Considering that Tim had really kept sober and steady for the past year and a half, she looked on the question as a frightful aspersion. More especially so as proceeding from Dr. Rane.
"Ican answer for it that he has not been drinking--and so, as I supposed, might everybody else," was her tart reply. "Timothy Wilks is worried, sir; that's what it is. He has never been at ease since people accused him of writing that anonymous letter: and he never will be till he is publicly cleared of it. Sir, I think he ought to be cleared."
Was it an ice-bolt that seemed to shoot through Oliver Rane's heart?--or only a spasm? Something took it: though he managed to keep his countenance, and to speak with quiet indifference.
"Cleared? Cleared of what? I fancied it had been ascertained that Wilks was the man who spoke of the affair out of Dale's office. He can't clear himself from that. As to any other suspicion, no one has cast it on him."
"Well, sir--of courseyou know best," answered Jelly, recollecting herself and cooling down: but she could not help emphasizing the words. "If Tim should become dangerously ill, it might have to be done to set his mind at rest."
"What might have to be done?" demanded Dr. Rane with authority.
And Jelly did not dare to answer the direct question. She could boast and talkatpeople in her gossiping way as long as she felt safe, but when it came to anything like proving her words, she was a very coward. Dr. Rane was looking at her, waiting for her to speak, his manner stern and uncompromising.
"Oh well, sir, I'm sure I don't know," she said, feeling as if her throat had dried up. "And I'm sure I hope poor Tim has not got the fever."
"I'll call and see him," repeated Dr. Rane, proceeding on his way. Jelly curtsied and went on hers.
When beyond her view, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, damp as with the dews of death. He must, he must get away from Jelly and Dallory! But for having a wife on his hands, he might have felt tempted to make a hasty flitting to America and join Dr. Jones. Join Dr. Jones? But how obtain the funds to do it with? His thoughts turned, as they ever did on these occasions, to that money of his locked up in the Tontine.Of his:that was how Dr. Rane had come to regard it. That money would bring him salvation. If he could only obtain it----
A bow from some white-haired old gentleman, passing in a carriage. Dr. Rane returned it, the singular coincidence of his appearance at that moment flashing through his mind. For it was Sir Thomas Ticknell. Yes: it truly seemed that that Tontine money would be nothing less than salvation to him. He went on with a great fear and pain in his throbbing heart, wondering for how long or how short a time Jelly would keep her counsel.
The next morning was Thursday. It brought news that almost struck people dumb: Henry Hepburn, the undertaker, was dead, and Mrs. Rane had been seized with the fever. Dr. Rane's account was, that his wife had been very restless all night; he gave her a composing draught, which seemed to be of use for the time: but upon attempting to get up she was attacked with nausea and faintness, and had to go back to bed. The symptoms that subsequently set in he feared were those of fever.
It was an awkward time for Bessy to be ill, as Molly Green had gone homo: but Phillis, an excellent substitute, was there. She attended on Mrs. Rane, and the doctor went abroad to his patients. Mr. North, disappointed at Bessy's non-arrival, hearing of her indisposition, came to the house; but Bessy sent down an urgent message by Phillis, begging him not to run any danger by coming up to her chamber. And Mr. North, docile and obedient--as madam in her imperiousness had trained him to be--left his best love, and went home again.
In the course of the morning Dr. Rane called in at Hepburn's. It was a double shop and house; in the one were sold articles of furniture, in the other the carpenter's work was carried on. Thomas Hepburn and his family lived in the former; Henry, now dead, had occupied the latter. He was a married man, but had no children. When Dr. Rane entered the second shop, he did not at first see Thomas Hepburn; the shutters up at the window made the place dark, coming in from the bright sunshine. Thomas Hepburn saw him, however, and came forward from the workshop behind, where he had been looking on at his men. Various articles seemed to be in the course of active construction, coffins amongst the rest.
"I am very sorry for this loss, Hepburn," began the doctor.
"Well, sir, I've not had any hope from the first," sighed Hepburn, his face looking careworn and unusually sickly in the half light. "I don't think poor Henry had."
"The fact is, Hepburn, he had not strength to carry him through the disorder; it did not attack him lightly. I did all I could."
"Yes, sir, I'm sure of that," returned Hepburn--and what with his naturally weak voice, and the hammering that was going on behind, Dr. Rane had to listen with all his ears to catch the words. "We've been an ailing family always: liable to take disorders, too, more than others."
Dr. Rane made no reply for the moment. He was looking at the speaker. Something in his aspect suggested the suspicion that the man was in actual fear himself.
"You must keep up a good heart, you know, Hepburn."
"I'd rather go a hundred miles, sir, than do what I've got to do just now amidst the dead," said Hepburn, glancing round, "That'show my brother took it."
"Let the workman go instead of you."
The undertaker shook his head. "Onehasto go with me; and the other is just as afraid as can be. No, I must go on myself. There'll be double work for me, now Henry's gone."
"Well, Hepburn, I begin to think the fever is on the turn," said the doctor cheerily, as he walked away.
The day wore on. Mrs. Rane's symptoms were decidedly those of fever, and the doctor went all the way to Whitborough himself: not far in point of distance, only that he could not well spare the time: to tell Molly Green she was to keep where she was, out of harm's way, and not return until sent for. When he returned home his wife was worse. Phillis met him at the door, and said her poor mistress's face was scarlet, and she rolled her head from side to side. Phillis wanted to remain the night, but the doctor would not have it: there was no necessity for it, he said, and she had better not be subjected to infection more than could be helped. So Phillis went away at ten o'clock.
Between eleven and twelve, just as Mr. Seeley was preparing for rest, Dr. Rane came in and asked him to go over to see his wife. The surgeon went at once. Bessy was lying in her comfortable chamber, just as Phillis had described--her face scarlet, her head turning uneasily on the pillow. A candle stood on the table, dimly lighting the room; Mr. Seeley took it close to inspect her face; but Bessy put up her hand and turned her head away, as if the light disturbed her.
"She seems slightly delirious," whispered Mr. Seeley apart, and Dr. Rane nodded. After that, the two doctors talked together a little on the stairs, and Mr. Seeley went away, saying he would come again in the morning.
In the morning, however, Dr. Rane went over to tell him that his wife, after a most restless night, had dropped into a quiet doze, and had better not be disturbed. He felt sure she was better. This was Friday.
Phillis arrived betimes. She found a wet sheet flapping in the grey ante-room, just outside the bedroom door, which Dr. Rane had saturated with disinfecting fluid. Jars of disinfectants stood on the wide landing, on the staircase, and in other parts of the house. Phillis had no fear, and went in behind the flapping sheet. She could make nothing of Mrs. Rane. Instead of the scarlet face and restless head, she now lay buried in her pillow, still, and pale, and intensely quiet. Phillis offered her some tea; Mrs. Rane just opened her eyes, and feebly motioned it away with her hand, just as she had motioned away the light the previous night. "It's a sudden change," thought Phillis. "I don't like it."
Later in the morning, Dr. Rane brought up Mr. Seeley. She lay in exactly the same position, deep in the pillow. What with that, and what with the large night-cap, the surgeon could get to see very little of her face.
"Don't disturb me," she faintly said, when he would have aroused her sufficiently to get a good look. "I am easy now."
"Do you know me?" questioned Mr. Seeley, bending over her.
"Yes," she answered, opening her eyes for a moment. "Let me sleep; I shall be better tomorrow."
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Only tired. Let me sleep."
"Bessy," said her husband, in the persuasive voice he used to the sick, "won't you just turn to Mr. Seeley?"
"To-morrow. I want to sleep."
And so they did not disturb her further. After all, sleep does wonders, as Dr. Rane remarked.
It might have been that Mr. Seeley went away somewhat puzzled, scarcely thinking that the fever had been on her sufficiently long to leave her in this state of exhaustion.
As the day went on a rumour was whispered that Mrs. Rane was dying. Whence it arose none could trace, unless from a word or two dropped by Dr. Rane himself to Thomas Hepburn. They happened to meet in the street, and the undertaker stopped to inquire after Mrs. Rane. She was in a most critical state, was the doctor's answer; the night would decide it, one way or the other.
Phillis went up to her mistress several times. Dr. Rane kept the hanging sheet well saturated, and flapped it often. Mrs. Rane never seemed to rouse herself throughout the day: seemed, in fact, to sleep through it. Phillis began to hope that it was indeed comfortable, refreshing rest, and that she would wake from it better.
"You'll let me stay here to-night, sir?" she said, when there was nothing more to be done, as Dr. Rane--who had been out--came in, and passed by the kitchen.
"No need," he answered in his decisive manner. "Be here the first thing in the morning."
Phillis put on her shawl and bonnet, wished him goodnight, and departed. It was about ten o'clock. Dr. Rane saw her out and went up to the sick room. In less than five minutes he came down again with a white face, opened the front-door, and strode across the road to Mr. Seeley's. The latter was in his surgery, in the act of pouring some medicine into a small phial.
"Seeley! Seeley! My wife is gone!"
What with the suddenness of the interruption, and the words, the surgeon was so startled that he dropped the bottle.
"Gone!" he cried. "Do you meandead?"
"I do."
"Why, when I saw you at dusk, you told me she was sleeping comfortably!" said the surgeon, staring at Dr. Rane. "Phillis also said it."
"And so she was. She was to all appearance. Heaven is my witness that I thought and believed the sleep then to be natural, and was refreshing her. She must have died in it. I went up now, and found her--found her--gone."
Oliver Rane put his arm on Mr. Seeley's counter and bent his face to hide his emotion. The surgeon in the midst of his surprise, had hardly ever felt so sorry for any one as he felt in that moment for his brother practitioner.