CHAPTER III.
Arthur looked at her in amazement. Was this his gentle sister-in-law? Her very voice seemed changed, and her frame was shaking with her unusual emotion.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Surely you have Henry’s welfare at heart as much as we have.’
‘I think I have, Arthur; but I will not attempt to persuade him to go to Switzerland, or any other place, unless it should be alone with me. I have already told you that he cannot bear the noise of children, even that of his own, neither does he care for company. I was sorry and surprised that, knowing his state of health, you should have introduced a stranger at The Old Hall without giving us notice, but now that I find he was amad doctor, brought here to examine my husband without my leave or cognisance, I think it little short of an insult.’
‘An insult? Oh! Hannah! that is too hard a word,’ interposed her brother-in-law.
‘I don’t say you meant it so, but at the least it was a piece of great officiousness on your part. How dared you think, or let others think,’ she went on, suddenly flaring up, ‘that my husband—ismad? Is that brotherly solicitude? For shame! For shame! Had I known who yourfriendwas, I would have turned him from my door.’
‘Then there is no chance, I suppose,’ said Arthur, sorrowfully, ‘of persuading you to join your forces to ours, and inducing Henry to go away with us for a change?’
‘Not the slightest. He does not need change. If he does, we will go away quietly together. Don’t think me unkind, Arthur, but I have already told you what Henry’s illness arises from. I know hesometimes takes a little dose of morphia, or smokes a pipe of opium; he does it to allay the pain of neuralgia, which often unfits him for business; many other neuralgic patients do the same. The pain he endures unfits him for society also; it upsets his nerves and makes him irritable. But to call him mad—to bring a mad doctor to see him, without asking his consent, or mine— Oh! it was cruel—cruel!’
She turned her back upon her brother-in-law, and went on with her work, whilst he sat there, hardly knowing what to do or say.
‘How am I to persuade you, Hannah,’ he resumed at last, ‘that I acted in all love and kindness towards my brother and you? I believed that, living always by his side, you could not have noticed what is so very palpable to me—the extraordinary change in poor Henry—’
‘Not seen it?’ she interrupted him with. ‘Not wept over it, and prayed over it for months past! Why not say at once thatI do not love my husband, Arthur? I know far more of him than you do, and could have saved you the trouble of bringing amaddoctor to gloat upon his infirmities. Henry is unhappy, poor darling! He has been unhappy ever since his partner’s death, and his nerves have become unstrung. He is foolish, perhaps, to take so much morphia, but it soothes and relieves him, and anything is better than that he should suffer. But you will not cure him—neither you nor your doctors! Only time and affection will do that, with perfect quiet. I will not, therefore, have him disturbed, nor worried in any way, either by relations or strangers. I will not let him go to public amusements again, which only tire him, but he shall stay at home with me till God, in His own good time, sees fit to cure him of his complaint.’
‘Forgive me, Hannah,’ said Captain Hindes, after a pause, ‘I daresay I have been very officious, but I did it for the best. Won’t you believe that?’
‘Yes, I believe that.’
‘And I will leave Henry for the future to you. But, oh! do try to wean him from that dreadful habit. And look here, my dear, under these circumstances, what is the use of my remaining in London? I cannot afford the expense of an hotel, and came here, as you must know, only to be near you and Henry. But it can be no pleasure to me to continue to see him in this condition, especially if I can do him no good. It unnerves me, Hannah. He is a wreck of his former self. We shall only quarrel if we continue to meet, so the sooner I take my wife and little ones into the fresh country, the better. Don’t be surprised, then, if we start almost immediately, but I shall, of course, run up and say good-bye to you and Henry before we go.’
He held out his hand to her as he spoke, but, to his surprise, instead of taking it, Hannah covered her face with her own, and burst into a flood of tears.
‘Oh! it is so hard—so hard,’ she sobbed,‘to see him so unlike himself, and find no remedy on any side. I would—I would,’ she continued hysterically, ‘give my life to see him as he used to be. But it is in vain wishing for it—all in vain—in vain!’
Arthur sat down beside her again, and took her hand.
‘My dear Hannah,’ he said, ‘I feel sure that all the dear old man wants is a complete change. He has been brooding over these sad deaths of the Cramptons, and that, added to business matters being a great anxiety, and this confounded neuralgia driving him half crazy, has had a great effect upon his mind. But, if he went right away, it would work a miracle for him. Come, dear girl, think over my proposal a second time, and bring him to Switzerland, with Edie and me.’
‘No, no, no; anything but that,’ said Hannah, shaking her head. ‘I will pray for him, and strive for him at home, but he must not go into society. Oh, Arthur, cease worrying me about it! I am so miserable—so miserable.’
‘My poor sister, I can see you are. Well, as you say, we must trust him to God. Good-bye for the present. Edie shall give you proper notice of our next visit. But this isn’t as it used to be—eh, Hannah?’
‘No; nothing is as it used to be,’ she responded, as she wished him farewell.
As soon as her brother-in-law was out of sight and hearing, poor Hannah gave vent to her tears in right earnest. How was all this to end, she thought. What would become of her hapless husband if it went on much longer? His condition had already attracted public notice. The next thing would be that he was declared unfit to conduct his business, and their affairs would have to be handed over to the care of a stranger. She foresaw nothing in the future but misery for herself and her children. She saw no prospect of ever having her daughters to live at home, for every day strengthened her resolve not to bring them in contact with so depraved and uncertain a father. Nothing remained for her but alife of servitude and loneliness, while she pandered to a sin she abhorred for the sake of the children she loved. Even so innocent a pleasure as the society of her brother and sister-in-law was denied her. Henry’s conduct had estranged them. Little by little, she foresaw she would be called upon to relinquish everything that had made her existence pleasant to her.
When her husband returned home and she communicated the fact of his brother’s proposed departure to him, he became as angry as if he had been doing everything in his power to make their stay in town agreeable. He called Arthur ungrateful, and Edith a fool, and wanted to know why they had ever returned to England if they intended to spend their furlough apart from the only relations they had in the world.
‘I think you forget, Henry,’ interposed his wife, ‘that Arthur is not very rich, and to live in London with five children is rather expensive work. Their weekly bills must amount to somethingterrific. I don’t wonder at his being anxious to get them all off into the country. He talks of going to Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland! Bosh!’ exclaimed Henry Hindes. ‘Why don’t he bring the lot of them to The Old Hall? There’s plenty of room for them here! I should like to see the children running about! The place has been infernally dull since you sent the girls away. Just write and tell Arthur that the old place is at his disposal whenever he likes. Why didn’t they come here from the beginning? What was the obstacle?’
‘Youwere, Henry!’ said Hannah, looking at him steadily. ‘Have you forgotten that already?’
The man shivered, and turned away. But, the next moment, he was braving it out.
‘Youwere, you mean, confound you!’ he retorted. ‘But if I choose to have my brother here, I shall do so without asking your leave, and that I tell you.’
‘I don’t think he would care to accept your invitation now,’ she said, ‘for you have behaved so rudely to him—once at the theatre and yesterday, when his friend was present,—that he would, I fancy, be rather afraid of subjecting himself to the daily risk of renewing such scenes. Arthur told me this afternoon that—’
‘What?—what?’ cried Hindes, quickly, ‘what did he tell you? He doesn’t suspect, does he, Hannah—he doesn’t think—you haven’ttoldhim,’ he continued, grasping her arm as if he held it in a vice. ‘You haven’t betrayed me—speak, speak, for God’s sake! Don’t keep me in suspense!’
He looked so abject as he put the question with trembling eagerness, that her heart went out to him with a great burst of pity. He was a murderer—but she loved him.
‘No, no, darling!’ she replied, with unwonted tenderness, as she bent down and kissed his haggard face, ‘how can you think so for a moment? I shall never,never betray you, Harry; not even at the bar of Heaven. If I am brought up there as witness against you, I will go to hell sooner than open my mouth. Don’t think it of me! You are not safer with God Himself than you are with me, my poor Harry!’
‘I know it, I know it!’ he muttered; ‘but why can’t Arthur come here, then?’
‘Because—oh! there are many reasons; don’t make me reiterate them. But one is, that I am afraid your conduct would excite his attention and, perhaps, his suspicions. You are not master of yourself, Henry! That dreadful morphia makes you just the same as if you were intoxicated. It is killing you, body and soul. You take far too much of it. You must give it up. Oh! do promise me, Hal, to try and do without it. Half your time you are so stupid, you don’t know what you are saying or doing. Even the servants see the alteration in you.Dogive it up, Henry. I would ask it of you on my bended knees if I thought it would haveany effect. Promise me you will throw the horrid bottle away, and never take any more of it.’
‘I cannot, I cannot!’ he replied in a despairing whisper. ‘I take it to keepheraway. Directly I leave it off for a nightshecomes and reproaches me with—you know what—and I cannot bear her eyes, they drive me mad.’
‘Dear husband, it is only your fancy. She is far too happy, by this time, not to have forgotten and forgiven long ago. Only pray for God’s forgiveness and all will be right. Or come away with me, as you proposed once before, and let us try to be at peace with our children again, in a new land.’
‘Not now,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘not while Arthur is in England. He would suspect—he would come too. Wait!—wait, till he is gone away again.’
‘Oh! Harry, never mind him. He may not go back to India for years. And your health is getting worse and worse. New scenes and interests would drive thesefeverish fancies out of your head. What is anything worth, in comparison to that? Leave the business to take care of itself! Sell it for anything it may fetch; only come away from England, and let me try to help you to overcome the dreadful habit you have contracted.’
‘It is too late, my dear. I could not do without it now. I should go mad.’
‘Henry, youwillgo mad if you do not leave it off! That Doctor Govan, who came here last evening, detected your fondness for morphia at once, and he told Arthur—’
But the idea that he was watched, raised the devil in Henry Hindes at once.
‘HowdareArthur set traps to catch me!’ he exclaimed furiously, ‘and you are aiding and abetting him.Whotold you what the doctor said? When have you seen my brother since? Are you all in league against me?’
‘No! no! Henry; don’t be so foolish,’ replied his wife. ‘No one says or thinks anything except for your good. But yourbrother is anxious on your account. Anyone would be who had known you in former days. You cannot know how ill you look. And so he brought his friend to see you, hoping he might suggest a remedy. But Doctor Govan said nothing will do you any good until you leave off morphia.’
‘D—n his impudence!’ exclaimed Hindes, angrily; ‘that’s what he was sneaking round here for, was it? I’ll teach him to lay siege to me in my own house. The next time he shows his face here, I’ll kick him out, and Arthur into the bargain. But it’s all your fault,’ he continued, turning round upon her. ‘If you didn’t go about with that long face of yours, people wouldn’t be trying to find out what was the matter with me. Sending the children away from home, too; why, that in itself is enough to raise any one’s suspicion—you, who always advocated home education, especially for girls. It is abominable—infamous—that a man cannot have any dependence even on his wife!’
The injustice of this attack, coming so immediately upon her kindness to him, stirred all the resentment of which she was capable in Hannah’s breast.
‘You are unjust to me,’ she cried, ‘most unjust! What other woman would have done for you what I have done? What other woman would have stayed by your side, after she knew whatIknow? I sent the girls away because I felt it was impossible they should be brought up in the same house with you, and the sequel has proved I was right. If any suspicions have been aroused, it is by your own conduct. The fatal habit you have contracted is as bad as that of drinking. It deprives a man of all self-respect—all forethought—all control over himself, or his temper. The scenes which took place in the theatre, and here, last night, are horrible to me and degrading to yourself. I have offered to exile myself with you in order to help you fight against the demon that possesses you, and you have refused. Ican do no more. Henceforward, you must go your own way, without aid from me! I can only wait and watch for the end.’
She turned from him indignantly as she concluded, and Henry Hindes felt for the first time as if he were indeed deserted by God and man.
The idea rendered him frantic. He dashed out of the room and stumbled upstairs. At the top he met little Wally coming to bid papa and mamma good-night, carefully feeling his way down the broad stairs by holding on tight to the banisters. Master Wally was, as his nurse said, ‘quite a man.’ He highly objected to being led, or held by the hand. ‘Let Wally go, all by his self,’ he would say, and so, clad in his white frock and blue ribbons, he was laboriously making his way downwards, whilst his nurse followed, smiling proudly at his independence.
Just as he had commenced to descend the last flight, he encountered his father,mad with rage and fear and morphia. He did not even seem to see the little figure he so dearly loved, as he stumbled upstairs, and half fell, half brushed rudely against it. The baby lost his slight hold of the railings at once, and fell to the very bottom, where he lay motionless.
A shriek from the nurse brought Hannah quickly out of the library, when she found her little son lying on the mat in the hall. As she raised him, she glanced upwards and saw her husband standing at the head of the staircase, paralysed with fright. She had only time to ask, ‘Is thisyourdoing?’ when he threw his arms wildly above his head, and exclaiming, ‘The cliffs! the cliffs! A judgment! a judgment!’ rushed away and locked himself into his own room.
Hannah had no care, at that moment, but for her little child. The nurse was sobbingly informing her how the dear baby was coming downstairs so beautifully, and how the master fell against him and upset his balance, and she hoped hermistress wouldn’t fancy it was by any fault of hers, when Hannah interrupted her by saying,—
‘Go and tell James to fetch Doctor Sewell at once, Annie, and I will lay Wally on the library sofa.’
She carried her little son away as she spoke, and sat down with him in her arms. Wally had not yet given any signs of consciousness, but lay like a bruised lily on his mother’s lap. His face was very white, and his eyes were closed, but there was no appearance of his having sustained any injury. But when Dr Sewell arrived, he looked very serious over the misadventure. He measured the height of the fall, and examined the child’s head and temples carefully. Then he said, as Wally stirred and moaned, and gave signs of returning consciousness,—
‘You had better put the little fellow to bed, Mrs Hindes, and let his nurse sit up with him during the night. I will send a draught for him to take, and will be here early to-morrow.’
‘But, doctor,’ said Hannah, anxiously, ‘you don’t think this fall will have any bad effects, do you? He has so often tumbled about before.’
‘Of course, of course,’ replied the doctor, cheerfully, ‘and will do so again, no doubt, but there is no harm in taking a little precaution. He is getting a heavy boy now, you know, and a fall is, consequently, more risky. But, doubtless, he will be all right after a few days’ rest. Get him to bed, and don’t take him out again till I have seen him in the morning.’
He left her with this sorry bit of comfort, and she carried her little boy up to her own bed, and prepared to watch by him for the night herself. As long as the nurse attended on her and Wally, she was undisturbed, but when she had dismissed her, and all the house was quiet, she heard the door between her room and that of her husband softly unclose, and Henry Hindes’s haggard face appeared in the opening. Hannah felt so much disgust for him at that moment, that she could nothelp showing the feeling in her face and manner.
‘Oh, go away, go away!’ she exclaimed with averted eyes, ‘I can’t bear to see you or hear your voice. You have done enough mischief, God knows! Go away and leave me in peace with my child. It is the least thing you can do.’
‘Is he dead?’ demanded Hindes, in an awed whisper.
‘He is not; but it is not your fault that he still lives. And what terrible results may follow this unnatural fall, no one knows. I told you what your habits would lead to. You have the consolation of knowing that you have injured, and perhaps killed, your favourite child by your fatal indulgence.’
‘No! not killed—notkilled—’ he repeated hoarsely, ‘it is impossible. God cannot have so little mercy.’
‘Mercy!’ cried Hannah, shrilly, for the accident to her baby had dried up, for the time being, every drop of the milk of human kindness in her, ‘what mercy have you aright to expect at His hand—you, who showed none? You are not satisfied with makingonemother childless. You must try and take the only joy left in my wretched life from me. You deprived me of the society of my girls, and now you want to murder my boy.’
She had used the word inadvertently, but it stabbed the unfortunate man before her to the heart. He glared wildly at her for a minute, and then, with a low cry like the protest of a wounded animal, he slammed the door between them, and locked it on the other side. Hannah had a bolt on hers, and she rose at once and drew it. She felt she could not endure his presence again that night. So she sat by Wally’s side, and watched his feverish slumbers alone till daylight.