Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.Mr Saxby Comes Down on Business.The next day and next, Sir James Scarlett seemed to be better. He was pale and suffering from the shock, speaking gravely to all about him, but evidently trying to make the visitors feel at their ease. He pressed them to stay; but the doctor had to get back to town; so had Prayle, though the latter acknowledged the fact with great reluctance; and it was arranged that they were to be driven over to the station together.That morning at breakfast, however, a visitor was announced in the person of Mr Frederick Saxby.“Saxby? What does he want?” said Scarlett. “Why, he must have come down from town this morning. Here, I’ll fetch him in.” He rose and left the room, and the doctor noted that his manner was a good deal changed.“Unpleasant business, perhaps,” he thought: and then, as his eyes met Lady Scarlett’s: “She’s thinking the same.”Just then Scarlett returned, ushering in a good-looking rather florid man of about thirty-five, over-dressed, and giving the impression, from his glossy coat to his dapper patent-leather boots, that he was something in the City.“Saxby has come down on purpose to see you, aunt,” said Scarlett. “Trusted to our giving him some breakfast, so let’s go on, and you people can afterwards discuss news.”Mr Saxby was extremely polite to all before he took his place, bowing deferentially to the ladies, most reverentially to Naomi, and apologetically to the gentlemen; though, as soon as the constraint caused by his coming in as he did had passed, he proved that he really was something in the City, displaying all the sharp dogmatic way of business men, the laying-down-the-law style of speech, and general belief that all the world’s inhabitants are fools—mere children in everything connected with business—always excepting the speaker, who seemed to assume a kind of hidden knowledge concerning all matters connected with sterling coin. He chatted a good deal upon subject that he assumed to be likely to interest his audience—how Egyptians were down, Turkish were up, and Hudson’s Bays were slashing, an expression likely to confuse an unversed personage, who might have taken Hudson’s Bays for some celebrated regiment of horse. He several times over tried to meet Aunt Sophia’s eyes; but that lady rigidly kept them upon her coffee-cup; and not only looked very stern and uncompromising, but gave vent to an occasional sniff, that made Mr Saxby start, as though he looked upon it as a kind of challenge to the fight to come.Despite the disturbing influences of Aunt Sophia’s sniffs and the proximate presence of Naomi, by whom he was seated, and to whom, in spite of his assumption, he found himself utterly unable to say a dozen sensible words, Mr Frederick Saxby, of the Stock Exchange, managed to partake of a most excellent breakfast—such a meal, in fact, as made Dr Scales glance inquiringly at him, and ask himself questions respecting digestion and the state of his general health.It was now, as the breakfast party separated, some to enter the conservatory, others to stroll round the garden, that Aunt Sophia met Mr Saxby’s eye, and nodding towards the drawing-room, said shortly: “Go in there!—Naomi, you can come too.”Mr Saxby heard the first part of Aunt Sophia’s speech as if it were an adverse sentence, the latter part as if it were a reprieve; and after drawing back, to allow the ladies to pass, he found that he was expected to go first, and did so, feeling extremely uncomfortable, and as if Naomi must be criticising his back—a very unpleasant feeling, by the way, to a sensitive man, especially if he be one who is exceedingly particular about his personal appearance, and wonders whether his coat fits, and the aforesaid back has been properly brushed.Naomi noted Mr Saxby’s uneasiness, and she also became aware of the fact that Arthur Prayle strolled slowly off into the conservatory, where he became deeply interested in the flowers, taking off a dead leaf here and there, and picking up fallen petals, accidentally getting near the open window the while.“Now, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia sharply, “you have brought me down those shares?”“Well, no, Miss Raleigh,” he said, business-like now at once. “I did not buy them because—”“You did not buy them?”“No, ma’am. You see, shares of that kind—”“Pay twelve and fifteen per cent, and I only get a pitiful three.”“Every year, ma’am, regularly. Shares like those you want me to buy generally promise fifteen, pay at the rate of ten on the first half-year—”“Well, ten per cent, then,” cried Aunt Sophia.“Don’t pay any dividend the second half-year, and the shares remain upon the buyer’s hands. No one will take them at any price.”“Oh, this is all stuff and nonsense, Mr Saxby!” cried Aunt Sophia angrily.“Not a bit of it, ma’am,” cried the stockbroker firmly.“But I say it is!” cried Aunt Sophia, with a stamp of her foot. “I had set my mind upon having those shares.”“And I had set my mind upon stopping you, ma’am. That’s why I got up at six o’clock this morning and came down.”“Mr Saxby!”“No use for you to be cross ma’am. Fighting against my own interest in the present; but while I have your business to transact, ma’am, I won’t see your little fortune frittered away.”“Mr Saxby!” exclaimed Aunt Sophia again.“I can’t help it, ma’am; and of course you are perfectly at liberty to take your business elsewhere. I want to make all I can out of you by commission and brokerage, etcetera; but I never allow a client of mine to go headlong, and run himself, or herself, down a Cornish mine, without trying to skid the wheels.”“You forget that you are addressing ladies, Mr Saxby.”“Beg pardon; yes,” said the stockbroker, trying hard to recall what he had said. “Very sorry; but those are my principles, ma’am.—I’m twenty pounds out of pocket, Miss Raleigh,” he continued, “by not doing this bit of business of your aunt’s.”“And I think it is a very great piece of presumption on your part, Mr Saxby. You need not address my niece, sir; she does not understand these matters at all. Am I to understand then, that you refuse to buy these shares for me?”“Yes, ma’am, must distinctly. I wouldn’t buy ’em for a client on any consideration.”“Very well, sir; that will do,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “Good-morning.”“But, my dear madam—”“I said that will do, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia stiffly. “Good-morning.”Mr Saxby’s lips moved, and he seemed to be trying to say something in his own defence, and he also turned towards Naomi, as if seeking for sympathy; but she only cast down her eyes.“Perhaps Mr Saxby would like to walk round the garden before he goes away,” continued Aunt Sophia, looking at a statuette beneath a glass shade as she spoke. “He will find my nephew and the doctor there.—Naomi, my dear, come with me.”“Really madam”—began the stockbroker.“Of course you will charge your expenses for this visit to me, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia coldly; and without another word she swept out of the room.“Well, if ever I”—Mr Saxby did not finish his sentence as he stood in the hall, but delivered a tremendous blow right into his hat, checking it in time to prevent injury to the glossy fabric; and then, sticking it sideways upon his head, and his hands beneath his coat-tails, he strolled out into the garden.Ten minutes later, Aunt Sophia returned into the drawing-room, and as she did so, a tall dark figure rose from where it was bending over a book.“Bless the man! how you made me jump,” cried Aunt Sophia.“I beg your pardon—I’m extremely sorry, Miss Raleigh,” said Prayle softly. “I was just looking through that little work.”“Oh!” said Aunt Sophia shortly.“By the way, Miss Raleigh—I am sure you will excuse me.”“Certainly, Mr Prayle, certainly,” said Aunt Sophia, who evidently supposed that the speaker was about to leave the room.“Thank you,” he said softly. “I only wanted to observe that I am engaged a great deal in the City, and—er—it often falls to my lot—er—to be aware of good opportunities for making investments.”“Indeed,” said Aunt Sophia.“Yes; not always, but at times,” continued Prayle. “I thought I would name it to you, as you might perhaps feel disposed to take shares, say, in some object of philanthropic design. I find that these affairs generally pay good dividends, while the shareholders are perfectly safe.”“Thank you, Mr Prayle,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “I don’t know that I have any money to invest.”“Exactly so,” exclaimed Prayle. “Of course I did not for a moment suppose that for the present you would have; but still I thought I would name the matter to you. There is some difficulty in obtaining shares of this class. They are apportioned amongst a very few.”“And do they pay a high percentage?”“Very, very high. The shareholders have been known to divide as much as twenty per cent, amongst them.”“Indeed, Mr Prayle.”“Yes, madam, indeed,” said the young man, as solemnly as if it had been some religious question.“That settles it then,” said Aunt Sophia cheerfully.“My dear madam?”“If they pay twenty per cent, the thing is not honest.”“My dear madam, I am speaking of no special undertaking,” said Prayle; “only generally.”“Special or general,” said Aunt Sophia dogmatically, “any undertaking that pays more than five per cent, is either exceptionally fortunate or exceptionally dishonest. Take my advice, Mr Prayle, and if ever you have any spare cash to invest, put it in consols. The interest is low, but it is sure, and whenever you want your money you can get it in an hour without waiting for settling days. There, as you are so soon going, I will say good-morning and good-bye.”She held out her hand, which was taken with a great show of respect, and then they parted.“The old girl is cunning,” said Arthur Prayle to himself; “but she will bite, and I shall land her yet.”“Ugh! How I do hate that smooth, dark, unpleasant man!” said Aunt Sophia, hurrying up to her bedroom. “He always puts me in mind of a slimy snake.”Moved by this idea, Aunt Sophia carefully washed her hands in two different waters, and even went so far as to smell her right hand afterwards, in happy ignorance of the fact that snakes are not slimy, but have skins that are tolerably dry and clean. So she sniffed in an angry kind of way at the hand she washed, though its scent was only that of old brown Windsor soap, which had for the time being, in her prejudiced mind, become an odour symbolical of deceit and all that was base and bad.“Ah!” she exclaimed, after another good rub, and another sniff; “that’s better now.”An hour later, the doctor, Prayle, and Mr Saxby had taken their leave, the last fully under the impression that he had lost a very excellent client.“Most pragmatical old lady,” he said to the doctor.“Well, she has all the crotchets of an old maid,” said Scales. “Ought to have married thirty or forty years ago. I don’t dislike her though.”“Humph! I didn’t, yesterday, Doctor Scales,” said Saxby; “to-day, I’m afraid I do. How she could ever have had such a niece!”Prayle looked up quickly.“Ah, it does seem curious,” said the doctor with a dry look of amusement on his countenance. “Would it not be more correct to say, one wonders that the young lady could ever have had such an aunt?”“Eh? Yes! Of course you are right,” said Mr Saxby, nodding. “Or, no! Oh, no! That won’t do, you know. Impossible. I was right. Eh? No; I was not. Tut—tut! how confusing these relationships are.”Mr Saxby discoursed upon stocks right through the journey up; and Mr Prayle either assumed to, or really did go to sleep, only awakening to take an effusive farewell of his companions at the terminus; while Saxby, to the doctor’s discomposure, took his arm, saying, “I’m going your way,” and walked by his side, talking of the weather, till, turning suddenly, he said: “I say: fair play’s a jewel, doctor. Are we both—eh?—Miss Naomi?”“What, I?—thinking of her? My dear sir, no!”“Thank you, doctor. First time I’m ill, I’ll come to you. That’s a load off my mind!”“But really, Mr Saxby, you should have asked Mr Prayle that question.”“Eh? What? You don’t think so, do you?”“I should be sorry to pass any judgment upon the matter, Mr Saxby,” said the doctor quietly; “and now we part. Good-day.”“Prayle, eh?” said Saxby. “Well, I never thought of him, and—Ah, she’s about the nicest, simplest, and sweetest girl I ever saw! But, Prayle!”People wondered why the smartly dressed City man stopped short and removed his glossy hat to rub one ear.
The next day and next, Sir James Scarlett seemed to be better. He was pale and suffering from the shock, speaking gravely to all about him, but evidently trying to make the visitors feel at their ease. He pressed them to stay; but the doctor had to get back to town; so had Prayle, though the latter acknowledged the fact with great reluctance; and it was arranged that they were to be driven over to the station together.
That morning at breakfast, however, a visitor was announced in the person of Mr Frederick Saxby.
“Saxby? What does he want?” said Scarlett. “Why, he must have come down from town this morning. Here, I’ll fetch him in.” He rose and left the room, and the doctor noted that his manner was a good deal changed.
“Unpleasant business, perhaps,” he thought: and then, as his eyes met Lady Scarlett’s: “She’s thinking the same.”
Just then Scarlett returned, ushering in a good-looking rather florid man of about thirty-five, over-dressed, and giving the impression, from his glossy coat to his dapper patent-leather boots, that he was something in the City.
“Saxby has come down on purpose to see you, aunt,” said Scarlett. “Trusted to our giving him some breakfast, so let’s go on, and you people can afterwards discuss news.”
Mr Saxby was extremely polite to all before he took his place, bowing deferentially to the ladies, most reverentially to Naomi, and apologetically to the gentlemen; though, as soon as the constraint caused by his coming in as he did had passed, he proved that he really was something in the City, displaying all the sharp dogmatic way of business men, the laying-down-the-law style of speech, and general belief that all the world’s inhabitants are fools—mere children in everything connected with business—always excepting the speaker, who seemed to assume a kind of hidden knowledge concerning all matters connected with sterling coin. He chatted a good deal upon subject that he assumed to be likely to interest his audience—how Egyptians were down, Turkish were up, and Hudson’s Bays were slashing, an expression likely to confuse an unversed personage, who might have taken Hudson’s Bays for some celebrated regiment of horse. He several times over tried to meet Aunt Sophia’s eyes; but that lady rigidly kept them upon her coffee-cup; and not only looked very stern and uncompromising, but gave vent to an occasional sniff, that made Mr Saxby start, as though he looked upon it as a kind of challenge to the fight to come.
Despite the disturbing influences of Aunt Sophia’s sniffs and the proximate presence of Naomi, by whom he was seated, and to whom, in spite of his assumption, he found himself utterly unable to say a dozen sensible words, Mr Frederick Saxby, of the Stock Exchange, managed to partake of a most excellent breakfast—such a meal, in fact, as made Dr Scales glance inquiringly at him, and ask himself questions respecting digestion and the state of his general health.
It was now, as the breakfast party separated, some to enter the conservatory, others to stroll round the garden, that Aunt Sophia met Mr Saxby’s eye, and nodding towards the drawing-room, said shortly: “Go in there!—Naomi, you can come too.”
Mr Saxby heard the first part of Aunt Sophia’s speech as if it were an adverse sentence, the latter part as if it were a reprieve; and after drawing back, to allow the ladies to pass, he found that he was expected to go first, and did so, feeling extremely uncomfortable, and as if Naomi must be criticising his back—a very unpleasant feeling, by the way, to a sensitive man, especially if he be one who is exceedingly particular about his personal appearance, and wonders whether his coat fits, and the aforesaid back has been properly brushed.
Naomi noted Mr Saxby’s uneasiness, and she also became aware of the fact that Arthur Prayle strolled slowly off into the conservatory, where he became deeply interested in the flowers, taking off a dead leaf here and there, and picking up fallen petals, accidentally getting near the open window the while.
“Now, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia sharply, “you have brought me down those shares?”
“Well, no, Miss Raleigh,” he said, business-like now at once. “I did not buy them because—”
“You did not buy them?”
“No, ma’am. You see, shares of that kind—”
“Pay twelve and fifteen per cent, and I only get a pitiful three.”
“Every year, ma’am, regularly. Shares like those you want me to buy generally promise fifteen, pay at the rate of ten on the first half-year—”
“Well, ten per cent, then,” cried Aunt Sophia.
“Don’t pay any dividend the second half-year, and the shares remain upon the buyer’s hands. No one will take them at any price.”
“Oh, this is all stuff and nonsense, Mr Saxby!” cried Aunt Sophia angrily.
“Not a bit of it, ma’am,” cried the stockbroker firmly.
“But I say it is!” cried Aunt Sophia, with a stamp of her foot. “I had set my mind upon having those shares.”
“And I had set my mind upon stopping you, ma’am. That’s why I got up at six o’clock this morning and came down.”
“Mr Saxby!”
“No use for you to be cross ma’am. Fighting against my own interest in the present; but while I have your business to transact, ma’am, I won’t see your little fortune frittered away.”
“Mr Saxby!” exclaimed Aunt Sophia again.
“I can’t help it, ma’am; and of course you are perfectly at liberty to take your business elsewhere. I want to make all I can out of you by commission and brokerage, etcetera; but I never allow a client of mine to go headlong, and run himself, or herself, down a Cornish mine, without trying to skid the wheels.”
“You forget that you are addressing ladies, Mr Saxby.”
“Beg pardon; yes,” said the stockbroker, trying hard to recall what he had said. “Very sorry; but those are my principles, ma’am.—I’m twenty pounds out of pocket, Miss Raleigh,” he continued, “by not doing this bit of business of your aunt’s.”
“And I think it is a very great piece of presumption on your part, Mr Saxby. You need not address my niece, sir; she does not understand these matters at all. Am I to understand then, that you refuse to buy these shares for me?”
“Yes, ma’am, must distinctly. I wouldn’t buy ’em for a client on any consideration.”
“Very well, sir; that will do,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “Good-morning.”
“But, my dear madam—”
“I said that will do, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia stiffly. “Good-morning.”
Mr Saxby’s lips moved, and he seemed to be trying to say something in his own defence, and he also turned towards Naomi, as if seeking for sympathy; but she only cast down her eyes.
“Perhaps Mr Saxby would like to walk round the garden before he goes away,” continued Aunt Sophia, looking at a statuette beneath a glass shade as she spoke. “He will find my nephew and the doctor there.—Naomi, my dear, come with me.”
“Really madam”—began the stockbroker.
“Of course you will charge your expenses for this visit to me, Mr Saxby,” said Aunt Sophia coldly; and without another word she swept out of the room.
“Well, if ever I”—Mr Saxby did not finish his sentence as he stood in the hall, but delivered a tremendous blow right into his hat, checking it in time to prevent injury to the glossy fabric; and then, sticking it sideways upon his head, and his hands beneath his coat-tails, he strolled out into the garden.
Ten minutes later, Aunt Sophia returned into the drawing-room, and as she did so, a tall dark figure rose from where it was bending over a book.
“Bless the man! how you made me jump,” cried Aunt Sophia.
“I beg your pardon—I’m extremely sorry, Miss Raleigh,” said Prayle softly. “I was just looking through that little work.”
“Oh!” said Aunt Sophia shortly.
“By the way, Miss Raleigh—I am sure you will excuse me.”
“Certainly, Mr Prayle, certainly,” said Aunt Sophia, who evidently supposed that the speaker was about to leave the room.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I only wanted to observe that I am engaged a great deal in the City, and—er—it often falls to my lot—er—to be aware of good opportunities for making investments.”
“Indeed,” said Aunt Sophia.
“Yes; not always, but at times,” continued Prayle. “I thought I would name it to you, as you might perhaps feel disposed to take shares, say, in some object of philanthropic design. I find that these affairs generally pay good dividends, while the shareholders are perfectly safe.”
“Thank you, Mr Prayle,” said Aunt Sophia shortly. “I don’t know that I have any money to invest.”
“Exactly so,” exclaimed Prayle. “Of course I did not for a moment suppose that for the present you would have; but still I thought I would name the matter to you. There is some difficulty in obtaining shares of this class. They are apportioned amongst a very few.”
“And do they pay a high percentage?”
“Very, very high. The shareholders have been known to divide as much as twenty per cent, amongst them.”
“Indeed, Mr Prayle.”
“Yes, madam, indeed,” said the young man, as solemnly as if it had been some religious question.
“That settles it then,” said Aunt Sophia cheerfully.
“My dear madam?”
“If they pay twenty per cent, the thing is not honest.”
“My dear madam, I am speaking of no special undertaking,” said Prayle; “only generally.”
“Special or general,” said Aunt Sophia dogmatically, “any undertaking that pays more than five per cent, is either exceptionally fortunate or exceptionally dishonest. Take my advice, Mr Prayle, and if ever you have any spare cash to invest, put it in consols. The interest is low, but it is sure, and whenever you want your money you can get it in an hour without waiting for settling days. There, as you are so soon going, I will say good-morning and good-bye.”
She held out her hand, which was taken with a great show of respect, and then they parted.
“The old girl is cunning,” said Arthur Prayle to himself; “but she will bite, and I shall land her yet.”
“Ugh! How I do hate that smooth, dark, unpleasant man!” said Aunt Sophia, hurrying up to her bedroom. “He always puts me in mind of a slimy snake.”
Moved by this idea, Aunt Sophia carefully washed her hands in two different waters, and even went so far as to smell her right hand afterwards, in happy ignorance of the fact that snakes are not slimy, but have skins that are tolerably dry and clean. So she sniffed in an angry kind of way at the hand she washed, though its scent was only that of old brown Windsor soap, which had for the time being, in her prejudiced mind, become an odour symbolical of deceit and all that was base and bad.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, after another good rub, and another sniff; “that’s better now.”
An hour later, the doctor, Prayle, and Mr Saxby had taken their leave, the last fully under the impression that he had lost a very excellent client.
“Most pragmatical old lady,” he said to the doctor.
“Well, she has all the crotchets of an old maid,” said Scales. “Ought to have married thirty or forty years ago. I don’t dislike her though.”
“Humph! I didn’t, yesterday, Doctor Scales,” said Saxby; “to-day, I’m afraid I do. How she could ever have had such a niece!”
Prayle looked up quickly.
“Ah, it does seem curious,” said the doctor with a dry look of amusement on his countenance. “Would it not be more correct to say, one wonders that the young lady could ever have had such an aunt?”
“Eh? Yes! Of course you are right,” said Mr Saxby, nodding. “Or, no! Oh, no! That won’t do, you know. Impossible. I was right. Eh? No; I was not. Tut—tut! how confusing these relationships are.”
Mr Saxby discoursed upon stocks right through the journey up; and Mr Prayle either assumed to, or really did go to sleep, only awakening to take an effusive farewell of his companions at the terminus; while Saxby, to the doctor’s discomposure, took his arm, saying, “I’m going your way,” and walked by his side, talking of the weather, till, turning suddenly, he said: “I say: fair play’s a jewel, doctor. Are we both—eh?—Miss Naomi?”
“What, I?—thinking of her? My dear sir, no!”
“Thank you, doctor. First time I’m ill, I’ll come to you. That’s a load off my mind!”
“But really, Mr Saxby, you should have asked Mr Prayle that question.”
“Eh? What? You don’t think so, do you?”
“I should be sorry to pass any judgment upon the matter, Mr Saxby,” said the doctor quietly; “and now we part. Good-day.”
“Prayle, eh?” said Saxby. “Well, I never thought of him, and—Ah, she’s about the nicest, simplest, and sweetest girl I ever saw! But, Prayle!”
People wondered why the smartly dressed City man stopped short and removed his glossy hat to rub one ear.
Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.A Wife’s Appeal.Two months of the life of John Scales passed away, during which he had three opportunities of gaining good additions to his practice, but in each case he set himself so thoroughly in apposition to the medical men with whom he was to be associated, that they one and all combined against him; and the heterodox professor of strange ideas of his own had the satisfaction of learning that his services would be dispensed with.“It doesn’t matter,” he said to himself. “I’m a deal happier as I am. Strange I haven’t heard from James Scarlett, by the way. I’ll give him a look in at his chambers. That Rosery is a paradise of a place! I wonder how the Diana is that I met—Lady Martlett. If I were an artist, I should go mad to paint her. As I’m a doctor,” he added reflectively, “I should like her as a patient.”“I shall be ready to believe in being influenced, if this sort of thing goes on,” said the doctor, a couple of hours later, as he read a letter from Lady Scarlett, giving him a long and painful account of his friend’s state of health.“Had four different doctors down,” read Scales. “Hum—ha, of course—would have asked me to come too, but they refused to meet me. Ha! I’m getting a nice character, somehow. Say they can do no more. Humph! Wonder at that. Growing moral, I suppose. Might have made a twelvemonth’s job of it. Humph! Cousin, Mr Arthur Prayle, been so kind. Given up everything to attend to dear James’s affairs. I shouldn’t like him to have anything to do with mine. Will I come down at once? James wishes it. Well, I suppose I must, poor old chap. They’ve been dosing him to death. Poor old boy! the shock of that drowning could hardly have kept up till now.” The upshot of it was that the doctor ran down that afternoon.Next morning, on entering the study, he found Lady Scarlett and Prayle seated at the table, the latter leaning towards his cousin’s wife, and apparently pointing to something, in a small clasped book, with the very sharply pointed pencil that he held in his hand.Prayle started, and shifted his position quickly. Lady Scarlett did not move, beyond looking up at the doctor anxiously, as his stern face was turned towards her.“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I did not know that you were engaged.”“Mr Prayle was explaining some business matters to me,” said Lady Scarlett. “Don’t go away. You said you should like to talk to me this morning.”“Yes,” replied the doctor coldly; “but the business will keep.”“Oh no; I beg you will not go,” said Lady Scarlett anxiously.“Perhaps I shall bede trop,” said Prayle smoothly, and his voice and looks forbade the idea that they were in the slightest degree malicious.“Well, as my remarks are for Lady Scarlett alone, Mr Prayle, perhaps you would kindly give me half an hour.”“Certainly,” cried Prayle, with a great assumption of frankness.—“Lady Scarlett will tell me, perhaps, when she would like to go on with these accounts?”“Oh, at any time, Arthur,” said Lady Scarlett anxiously. “Pray, do not think I am slighting them: but this seems of so much more importance now.”“When and where you please,” said Prayle softly. “Don’t study me. I have only my cousin’s interest at heart.” He rose, smiling, and left the room; but the smile passed off Prayle’s countenance as the door closed; and he went out angry-looking and biting his lip, to walk up and down the garden, turning from time to time to the book he held in his hand.The doctor was very quiet and grave, as he took the chair pointed to by Lady Scarlett; and as he gazed at her rather fixedly, his face seemed to harden.“I am very glad you have come,” she said. “James seems to be more restful and confident now you are here. He always thought so much of you.”“We were such old companions: perhaps that is it.”“Well, you have seen him again this morning. You said I was to give you time. Now, tell me what you think. You find him better?”“I must be frank with you, Lady Scarlett,” said the doctor. “No; I do not.”“And I was so hopeful!” said the poor woman piteously.“It would be folly for me not to speak plainly—I think cruelty. I find him worse.”Lady Scarlett let her head go down upon her hands, covering her face, and the doctor thought that she was weeping; but at the end of a minute she raised her head again, and looked at her visitor, dry-eyed and pale. “Go on,” she said in a voice full of suppressed pain.“I cannot, help telling you plainly what I think.”“No; of course not. Pray, hide nothing from me.”“Well, it seems to me,” he continued, “that in bringing him back as it were to life, I left part of my work undone.”“O no!” cried Lady Scarlett.“Yes: I brought back his body to life and activity, but I seem to have left behind much of his brain. That seems half dead. He is no longer the man he was.”“No,” sighed Lady Scarlett. “What you say is true; but surely,” she cried, “you can cure him now.”The doctor remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes. “I think when I was down here—at the time of the accident—I told you at the table about a patient I was attending—a gentleman suffering from a peculiar nervous ailment.”“O yes, yes!” cried Lady Scarlett. “I remember. It seems to be burned into my brain, and I’ve lain awake night after night, thinking it was almost prophetic.”“I’ve thought so too,” said the doctor drily, “though I never fancied that I was going to join the prophets.”“But you cured your patient?” cried Lady Scarlett anxiously.“No; I am sorry to say that my efforts, have been vain. It is one of my failures; and I think it would be a pity for me to take up poor Scarlett’s case.”“But he wishes it—I wish it.”“You have quite ceased going to Sir Morton Laurent?”“O yes. He did my husband no good; and the excitement of going up to town—the train—the carriage—and the cab—and then seeing the doctor, always upset him dreadfully. I am sure the visits did him a great deal of harm.”“Perhaps so, in his nervous state. Maybe, under the circumstances, you were wise to give them up.”“I am sure I was,” responded Lady Scarlett.“And the local doctors?”“He will not see them; he says they aggravate him with their stupid questions. And yet he must have medical advice.”“How would it be if you took him abroad—say to some one or other of the baths? There you would get change of air, scene, the tonic waters for him to drink, and medical attendance on the spot.”“No, no; no, no; it is impossible! You shall judge for yourself,” cried Lady Scarlett. “He would never bear the change. You will find that he is only satisfied when he is here at home—safe, he calls it, within the garden fence. He will not stir outside, and trembles even here at the slightest sound.”“But surely we could hit upon some clever medical man who would be able to manage his case with skill, and in whom my poor friend would feel confidence.”“Whom could I find? How could I find one?” exclaimed Lady Scarlett. “There is no one but you to whom I can appeal.”“Is this truth, or acting?” thought Scales. “Why does she want me here?”“I have thought it all out so carefully,” continued Lady Scarlett. “You see he is alarmed at the very idea of a doctor coming near him.”“And yet you bring me here.”“Yes; you are his old schoolfellow, and he will welcome you as a friend. The fact of your being a doctor will not trouble him.”“I see,” said Scales.“Then, while being constantly in his company, you can watch every change.”“Nice treacherous plan, eh, Lady Scarlett!” said the doctor, laughing.“Don’t call it that,” she said pitifully. “It is for his good.”“Yes, yes; of course—of course. It’s only giving him his powder in jam after all. But, tell me, if I agree to take his case in hand—”“Which you will?” interrupted Lady Scarlett.“I don’t know yet,” he replied drily. “But supposing I do: how often would you want me to come down here?”“How often?” echoed the lady, with her eyes dilating. “I meant for you to come and live here until he is well.”“Phee-ew!” whistled the doctor, and he sat back in his chair thinking and biting his nails. “What does she mean?” he thought. “Am I too hard upon her? Is my dislike prejudice, or am I justified in thinking her a woman as deceitful as she is bad? If I am right, I am wanted down here to help some one or other of her plans. I won’t stop. I’m sorry for poor Scarlett, and I might do him good, but—”“You have considered the matter, and you will stay, doctor, will you not?” said Lady Scarlett sweetly.“No, madam; I do not think it would be fair to any of the parties concerned.”“Doctor!” she cried appealingly, “oh, pray, don’t say that. Forgive me if I speak plainly. Is it a question of money? If it is, pray, speak. I’d give up half of what we have for my husband to be restored.”“No, madam,” said the doctor bluntly; “it is not a question of money. Several things combine to make me decline this offer; principally, I find a want of confidence in undertaking so grave a responsibility.”“Doctor!” cried Lady Scarlett, rising and standing before him, with one hand resting upon the table, “you are trying to deceive me.”“Indeed, madam—”“You never liked me, doctor, from the hour I was engaged; you have never liked me since.”“My dear Lady Scarlett!—”“Listen to me, doctor. A woman is never deceived upon such points as this; she as readily notes the fact when a man dislikes as when he admires her. It is one of the gifts of her sex.”“I was not aware of it,” said the doctor coldly, “but I will take it that it is so.”“I have never injured you, doctor.”“Never, madam.”“I have, for my dear husband’s sake, always longed to be your friend; but—be frank with me, doctor, as I am with you—you never gave me a place in your esteem.”The doctor was silent.“I don’t know why,” continued Lady Scarlett, with tears in her eyes, “for I have always tried to win you to my side; but you have repelled me. You have been friendly and spoken kindly; but there was always a something behind. Doctor, why is all this—No; stop! Don’t speak to me—don’t say a word. What are my poor troubles, or your likes and dislikes, in the face of this terrible calamity? You dislike me, Doctor Scales. I do not dislike you; for I believe you to be an honourable man. Let us sink all our differences. No, I beg—I pray of you to stop here—to give up everything else to the study of my poor husband’s case. My only hope is in you.”As she made this appeal with an intensity of earnestness that was almost dramatic in its tone and action, the doctor imitated her movement and rose to his feet.“Lady Scarlett,” he said coldly, “you are excited now, and you have said several things that perhaps would have been as well left unsaid. I will not reply to them; for I agree with you that the question of Sir James Scarlett’s health and restoration is one that should sweep away all petty differences. I trust that I have always treated my poor friend’s wife with the greatest respect and deference, and that I always shall.”“Yes, yes,” replied Lady Scarlett sadly; “deference and respect;” and as she gazed at him, there was a pained and wistful look in her suffused eyes that seemed to make him hesitate for the moment; but as she added, rather bitterly—“that is all,” the way to his heart, that was beginning to open a little, reclosed, and he said sternly:“No; I feel certain that it would be far better that I should not monopolise the treatment of my friend’s case, and that—”“Hush!” exclaimed Lady Scarlett quickly, for the door opened, and the object of their conversation, looking thin, pale, and with a scared and anxious expression on his countenance, came quickly into the room.“Ah, Jack, here you are, then!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Here, come and sit and talk to me.”“All right,” said the doctor, in his blunt way. “What do you say to having out the ponies and giving me a drive?”“Drive?—a drive?” repeated Scarlett uneasily. “No, no. It is not fine enough.”“Lovely, my dear fellow, as soon as you get outside.”“No; not to-day, Jack. Don’t ask me,” said Scarlett excitedly, as his wife sat down and took up a piece of work. “The ponies are too fresh. They’ve done nothing lately, and one of them has developed a frightfully vicious temper. I shall have to sell them.”“Let’s go on the water, then; a row would do you good.”Lady Scarlett darted an imploring look at the doctor; but if intended to stay his speech it came too late.“Row? No!” said Scarlett with a shudder. “I never go on the water now. My left wrist is so weak, I am afraid I have somehow sprained one of the tendons. Don’t ask me to row.”Lady Scarlett darted a second imploring look at the doctor, and he read it, as it seemed to him, to say: “Pray, don’t allude to the water;” but it was part of his endeavour to probe his friend’s mental wound to the quick, and he went on: “Laziness, you sybaritish old humbug! Very well, then; I’ll give up the rowing, and we’ll have the punt, and go and fish.”“Impossible; the water is too thick, and I don’t think there are any baits ready.”“How tiresome!” said the doctor. “I had made up my mind for a try at the barbel before I went back.”“Before you went back?” cried Scarlett excitedly; and he caught his friend by the arm—“before you went back! What do you mean?”“Mean, old fellow? Why, before I went back to London.”“Why, you’re not thinking of going back—of leaving me here alone—of leaving me—me—er—” He trailed off, leaving his sentence unfinished, and stood looking appealingly at his friend.“Why, my dear boy, what nonsense you are talking,” replied Scales. “Leave you—alone? Why, man, you’ve your aunt and your relatives. There’s your cousin out there now.”“Yes, yes—of course—I know. But don’t go, Jack. I’m—I’m ill. I—I want you to set.—to set me right. Don’t—don’t go and leave me, Jack.”“Now, there’s a wicked old impostor for you, Lady Scarlett!” cried the doctor, going close up to his friend, catching him by both shoulders, giving him a bit of a shake, and then patting him on the chest and back. “Not so stout as he was, but sound as a roach. Lungs without a weak spot. Heart pumping like a steam-engine—eyes clear—skin as fresh as a daisy—and tongue as clean. Get out, you sham Abram! pretending a pain to get me to stay!”“Yes, of course I’m quite well—quite well, Jack; but a trifle—just a trifle low. I thought you’d stop with me, and take—take care of me a bit and put me right. I’m—I’m so lonely down here now.”Lady Scarlett did not speak; but there was a quiver of the lip, and a look in her eyes as she turned them upon the doctor, that disarmed him.“She does care for him,” he said to himself. “She must care for him.”“I tell you what it is,” he said aloud; “you’ve been overdoing it in those confounded greenhouses of yours. Too much hot air, moist carbonic acid gas, and that sort of thing.—Lady Scarlett, he has been thinking a deal more of his melons than of his health.”“Yes; he does devote a very, very great deal of attention to them,” assented Lady Scarlett eagerly.“To be sure, and it is not good for him.—You must go up to town more and attend to business.”“Yes, of course; I mean to—soon,” said Scarlett, with his eyes wandering from one to the other.“Here, you must beg off with Lady Scarlett, and come up with me.”“With you? What! to town?”“To be sure; and we’ll have a regular round of dissipation: Monday pops; the opera; and Saturday concerts at the Crystal Palace. What do you say?”“No!” said Scarlett, in a sharp, harsh, peremptory way. “I am not going to town again—at present.”“Nonsense, man I—Tell him he may come, Lady Scarlett.”“Oh yes, yes; I should be glad for him to go!” cried Lady Scarlett eagerly; and then she shrank and coloured as she saw the doctor’s searching look.“There, you hear.”“Yes, I hear; but I cannot go. The glass-houses could not be left now.”“What, not to our old friend Monnick?”“No; certainly not; no,” cried Scarlett hastily. “Come out now—in the garden, Jack. I’ll show you.—Are you very busy in town—much practice?”“Practice?” cried Scales, laughing, and thoroughly off his guard as to himself. “Not a bit, my dear boy. I’m a regular outcast from professional circles. No practice for me.”“Then there is nothing to take you back,” cried Scarlett quickly, “and you must stay.—Kate, do you hear? I say he must stay!”There was an intense irritation in his manner as he said these words, and his wife looked up in a frightened way.“Yes, yes, dear. Of course Doctor Scales will stay.”“Then why don’t you ask him?” he continued in the same irritable manner. “A man won’t stop if the mistress of the house slights him.”“But, my dear James,” cried Lady Scarlett, with the tears in her eyes, “I have not slighted Doctor Scales. On the contrary, I was begging that he would stay when you came in.”“Why?—why?” exclaimed Scarlett, with increasing excitement. “You must have had some reason. Do you hear? Why did you ask him to stay?”“Because I knew you wished it,” said Lady Scarlett meekly; “and I thought it would do you good to have him with you for a time, dear.”“Do me good! Such sickly nonsense! Just as if I were ill. You put me out of patience, Kate; you do indeed. How can you be so childish!—Come into the garden, Jack. I’ll be back directly I’ve got my cigar-case.”“Shall I fetch it, dear?” asked Lady Scarlett eagerly.“No; of course not. Any one would think I was an invalid;” and he left the room.“Lady Scarlett,” said the doctor, as soon as they were alone, “I will stay.”“God bless you!” she cried, with a burst of sobbing; and she hurried away.
Two months of the life of John Scales passed away, during which he had three opportunities of gaining good additions to his practice, but in each case he set himself so thoroughly in apposition to the medical men with whom he was to be associated, that they one and all combined against him; and the heterodox professor of strange ideas of his own had the satisfaction of learning that his services would be dispensed with.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said to himself. “I’m a deal happier as I am. Strange I haven’t heard from James Scarlett, by the way. I’ll give him a look in at his chambers. That Rosery is a paradise of a place! I wonder how the Diana is that I met—Lady Martlett. If I were an artist, I should go mad to paint her. As I’m a doctor,” he added reflectively, “I should like her as a patient.”
“I shall be ready to believe in being influenced, if this sort of thing goes on,” said the doctor, a couple of hours later, as he read a letter from Lady Scarlett, giving him a long and painful account of his friend’s state of health.
“Had four different doctors down,” read Scales. “Hum—ha, of course—would have asked me to come too, but they refused to meet me. Ha! I’m getting a nice character, somehow. Say they can do no more. Humph! Wonder at that. Growing moral, I suppose. Might have made a twelvemonth’s job of it. Humph! Cousin, Mr Arthur Prayle, been so kind. Given up everything to attend to dear James’s affairs. I shouldn’t like him to have anything to do with mine. Will I come down at once? James wishes it. Well, I suppose I must, poor old chap. They’ve been dosing him to death. Poor old boy! the shock of that drowning could hardly have kept up till now.” The upshot of it was that the doctor ran down that afternoon.
Next morning, on entering the study, he found Lady Scarlett and Prayle seated at the table, the latter leaning towards his cousin’s wife, and apparently pointing to something, in a small clasped book, with the very sharply pointed pencil that he held in his hand.
Prayle started, and shifted his position quickly. Lady Scarlett did not move, beyond looking up at the doctor anxiously, as his stern face was turned towards her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I did not know that you were engaged.”
“Mr Prayle was explaining some business matters to me,” said Lady Scarlett. “Don’t go away. You said you should like to talk to me this morning.”
“Yes,” replied the doctor coldly; “but the business will keep.”
“Oh no; I beg you will not go,” said Lady Scarlett anxiously.
“Perhaps I shall bede trop,” said Prayle smoothly, and his voice and looks forbade the idea that they were in the slightest degree malicious.
“Well, as my remarks are for Lady Scarlett alone, Mr Prayle, perhaps you would kindly give me half an hour.”
“Certainly,” cried Prayle, with a great assumption of frankness.—“Lady Scarlett will tell me, perhaps, when she would like to go on with these accounts?”
“Oh, at any time, Arthur,” said Lady Scarlett anxiously. “Pray, do not think I am slighting them: but this seems of so much more importance now.”
“When and where you please,” said Prayle softly. “Don’t study me. I have only my cousin’s interest at heart.” He rose, smiling, and left the room; but the smile passed off Prayle’s countenance as the door closed; and he went out angry-looking and biting his lip, to walk up and down the garden, turning from time to time to the book he held in his hand.
The doctor was very quiet and grave, as he took the chair pointed to by Lady Scarlett; and as he gazed at her rather fixedly, his face seemed to harden.
“I am very glad you have come,” she said. “James seems to be more restful and confident now you are here. He always thought so much of you.”
“We were such old companions: perhaps that is it.”
“Well, you have seen him again this morning. You said I was to give you time. Now, tell me what you think. You find him better?”
“I must be frank with you, Lady Scarlett,” said the doctor. “No; I do not.”
“And I was so hopeful!” said the poor woman piteously.
“It would be folly for me not to speak plainly—I think cruelty. I find him worse.”
Lady Scarlett let her head go down upon her hands, covering her face, and the doctor thought that she was weeping; but at the end of a minute she raised her head again, and looked at her visitor, dry-eyed and pale. “Go on,” she said in a voice full of suppressed pain.
“I cannot, help telling you plainly what I think.”
“No; of course not. Pray, hide nothing from me.”
“Well, it seems to me,” he continued, “that in bringing him back as it were to life, I left part of my work undone.”
“O no!” cried Lady Scarlett.
“Yes: I brought back his body to life and activity, but I seem to have left behind much of his brain. That seems half dead. He is no longer the man he was.”
“No,” sighed Lady Scarlett. “What you say is true; but surely,” she cried, “you can cure him now.”
The doctor remained silent and thoughtful for a few minutes. “I think when I was down here—at the time of the accident—I told you at the table about a patient I was attending—a gentleman suffering from a peculiar nervous ailment.”
“O yes, yes!” cried Lady Scarlett. “I remember. It seems to be burned into my brain, and I’ve lain awake night after night, thinking it was almost prophetic.”
“I’ve thought so too,” said the doctor drily, “though I never fancied that I was going to join the prophets.”
“But you cured your patient?” cried Lady Scarlett anxiously.
“No; I am sorry to say that my efforts, have been vain. It is one of my failures; and I think it would be a pity for me to take up poor Scarlett’s case.”
“But he wishes it—I wish it.”
“You have quite ceased going to Sir Morton Laurent?”
“O yes. He did my husband no good; and the excitement of going up to town—the train—the carriage—and the cab—and then seeing the doctor, always upset him dreadfully. I am sure the visits did him a great deal of harm.”
“Perhaps so, in his nervous state. Maybe, under the circumstances, you were wise to give them up.”
“I am sure I was,” responded Lady Scarlett.
“And the local doctors?”
“He will not see them; he says they aggravate him with their stupid questions. And yet he must have medical advice.”
“How would it be if you took him abroad—say to some one or other of the baths? There you would get change of air, scene, the tonic waters for him to drink, and medical attendance on the spot.”
“No, no; no, no; it is impossible! You shall judge for yourself,” cried Lady Scarlett. “He would never bear the change. You will find that he is only satisfied when he is here at home—safe, he calls it, within the garden fence. He will not stir outside, and trembles even here at the slightest sound.”
“But surely we could hit upon some clever medical man who would be able to manage his case with skill, and in whom my poor friend would feel confidence.”
“Whom could I find? How could I find one?” exclaimed Lady Scarlett. “There is no one but you to whom I can appeal.”
“Is this truth, or acting?” thought Scales. “Why does she want me here?”
“I have thought it all out so carefully,” continued Lady Scarlett. “You see he is alarmed at the very idea of a doctor coming near him.”
“And yet you bring me here.”
“Yes; you are his old schoolfellow, and he will welcome you as a friend. The fact of your being a doctor will not trouble him.”
“I see,” said Scales.
“Then, while being constantly in his company, you can watch every change.”
“Nice treacherous plan, eh, Lady Scarlett!” said the doctor, laughing.
“Don’t call it that,” she said pitifully. “It is for his good.”
“Yes, yes; of course—of course. It’s only giving him his powder in jam after all. But, tell me, if I agree to take his case in hand—”
“Which you will?” interrupted Lady Scarlett.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied drily. “But supposing I do: how often would you want me to come down here?”
“How often?” echoed the lady, with her eyes dilating. “I meant for you to come and live here until he is well.”
“Phee-ew!” whistled the doctor, and he sat back in his chair thinking and biting his nails. “What does she mean?” he thought. “Am I too hard upon her? Is my dislike prejudice, or am I justified in thinking her a woman as deceitful as she is bad? If I am right, I am wanted down here to help some one or other of her plans. I won’t stop. I’m sorry for poor Scarlett, and I might do him good, but—”
“You have considered the matter, and you will stay, doctor, will you not?” said Lady Scarlett sweetly.
“No, madam; I do not think it would be fair to any of the parties concerned.”
“Doctor!” she cried appealingly, “oh, pray, don’t say that. Forgive me if I speak plainly. Is it a question of money? If it is, pray, speak. I’d give up half of what we have for my husband to be restored.”
“No, madam,” said the doctor bluntly; “it is not a question of money. Several things combine to make me decline this offer; principally, I find a want of confidence in undertaking so grave a responsibility.”
“Doctor!” cried Lady Scarlett, rising and standing before him, with one hand resting upon the table, “you are trying to deceive me.”
“Indeed, madam—”
“You never liked me, doctor, from the hour I was engaged; you have never liked me since.”
“My dear Lady Scarlett!—”
“Listen to me, doctor. A woman is never deceived upon such points as this; she as readily notes the fact when a man dislikes as when he admires her. It is one of the gifts of her sex.”
“I was not aware of it,” said the doctor coldly, “but I will take it that it is so.”
“I have never injured you, doctor.”
“Never, madam.”
“I have, for my dear husband’s sake, always longed to be your friend; but—be frank with me, doctor, as I am with you—you never gave me a place in your esteem.”
The doctor was silent.
“I don’t know why,” continued Lady Scarlett, with tears in her eyes, “for I have always tried to win you to my side; but you have repelled me. You have been friendly and spoken kindly; but there was always a something behind. Doctor, why is all this—No; stop! Don’t speak to me—don’t say a word. What are my poor troubles, or your likes and dislikes, in the face of this terrible calamity? You dislike me, Doctor Scales. I do not dislike you; for I believe you to be an honourable man. Let us sink all our differences. No, I beg—I pray of you to stop here—to give up everything else to the study of my poor husband’s case. My only hope is in you.”
As she made this appeal with an intensity of earnestness that was almost dramatic in its tone and action, the doctor imitated her movement and rose to his feet.
“Lady Scarlett,” he said coldly, “you are excited now, and you have said several things that perhaps would have been as well left unsaid. I will not reply to them; for I agree with you that the question of Sir James Scarlett’s health and restoration is one that should sweep away all petty differences. I trust that I have always treated my poor friend’s wife with the greatest respect and deference, and that I always shall.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Lady Scarlett sadly; “deference and respect;” and as she gazed at him, there was a pained and wistful look in her suffused eyes that seemed to make him hesitate for the moment; but as she added, rather bitterly—“that is all,” the way to his heart, that was beginning to open a little, reclosed, and he said sternly:
“No; I feel certain that it would be far better that I should not monopolise the treatment of my friend’s case, and that—”
“Hush!” exclaimed Lady Scarlett quickly, for the door opened, and the object of their conversation, looking thin, pale, and with a scared and anxious expression on his countenance, came quickly into the room.
“Ah, Jack, here you are, then!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Here, come and sit and talk to me.”
“All right,” said the doctor, in his blunt way. “What do you say to having out the ponies and giving me a drive?”
“Drive?—a drive?” repeated Scarlett uneasily. “No, no. It is not fine enough.”
“Lovely, my dear fellow, as soon as you get outside.”
“No; not to-day, Jack. Don’t ask me,” said Scarlett excitedly, as his wife sat down and took up a piece of work. “The ponies are too fresh. They’ve done nothing lately, and one of them has developed a frightfully vicious temper. I shall have to sell them.”
“Let’s go on the water, then; a row would do you good.”
Lady Scarlett darted an imploring look at the doctor; but if intended to stay his speech it came too late.
“Row? No!” said Scarlett with a shudder. “I never go on the water now. My left wrist is so weak, I am afraid I have somehow sprained one of the tendons. Don’t ask me to row.”
Lady Scarlett darted a second imploring look at the doctor, and he read it, as it seemed to him, to say: “Pray, don’t allude to the water;” but it was part of his endeavour to probe his friend’s mental wound to the quick, and he went on: “Laziness, you sybaritish old humbug! Very well, then; I’ll give up the rowing, and we’ll have the punt, and go and fish.”
“Impossible; the water is too thick, and I don’t think there are any baits ready.”
“How tiresome!” said the doctor. “I had made up my mind for a try at the barbel before I went back.”
“Before you went back?” cried Scarlett excitedly; and he caught his friend by the arm—“before you went back! What do you mean?”
“Mean, old fellow? Why, before I went back to London.”
“Why, you’re not thinking of going back—of leaving me here alone—of leaving me—me—er—” He trailed off, leaving his sentence unfinished, and stood looking appealingly at his friend.
“Why, my dear boy, what nonsense you are talking,” replied Scales. “Leave you—alone? Why, man, you’ve your aunt and your relatives. There’s your cousin out there now.”
“Yes, yes—of course—I know. But don’t go, Jack. I’m—I’m ill. I—I want you to set.—to set me right. Don’t—don’t go and leave me, Jack.”
“Now, there’s a wicked old impostor for you, Lady Scarlett!” cried the doctor, going close up to his friend, catching him by both shoulders, giving him a bit of a shake, and then patting him on the chest and back. “Not so stout as he was, but sound as a roach. Lungs without a weak spot. Heart pumping like a steam-engine—eyes clear—skin as fresh as a daisy—and tongue as clean. Get out, you sham Abram! pretending a pain to get me to stay!”
“Yes, of course I’m quite well—quite well, Jack; but a trifle—just a trifle low. I thought you’d stop with me, and take—take care of me a bit and put me right. I’m—I’m so lonely down here now.”
Lady Scarlett did not speak; but there was a quiver of the lip, and a look in her eyes as she turned them upon the doctor, that disarmed him.
“She does care for him,” he said to himself. “She must care for him.”
“I tell you what it is,” he said aloud; “you’ve been overdoing it in those confounded greenhouses of yours. Too much hot air, moist carbonic acid gas, and that sort of thing.—Lady Scarlett, he has been thinking a deal more of his melons than of his health.”
“Yes; he does devote a very, very great deal of attention to them,” assented Lady Scarlett eagerly.
“To be sure, and it is not good for him.—You must go up to town more and attend to business.”
“Yes, of course; I mean to—soon,” said Scarlett, with his eyes wandering from one to the other.
“Here, you must beg off with Lady Scarlett, and come up with me.”
“With you? What! to town?”
“To be sure; and we’ll have a regular round of dissipation: Monday pops; the opera; and Saturday concerts at the Crystal Palace. What do you say?”
“No!” said Scarlett, in a sharp, harsh, peremptory way. “I am not going to town again—at present.”
“Nonsense, man I—Tell him he may come, Lady Scarlett.”
“Oh yes, yes; I should be glad for him to go!” cried Lady Scarlett eagerly; and then she shrank and coloured as she saw the doctor’s searching look.
“There, you hear.”
“Yes, I hear; but I cannot go. The glass-houses could not be left now.”
“What, not to our old friend Monnick?”
“No; certainly not; no,” cried Scarlett hastily. “Come out now—in the garden, Jack. I’ll show you.—Are you very busy in town—much practice?”
“Practice?” cried Scales, laughing, and thoroughly off his guard as to himself. “Not a bit, my dear boy. I’m a regular outcast from professional circles. No practice for me.”
“Then there is nothing to take you back,” cried Scarlett quickly, “and you must stay.—Kate, do you hear? I say he must stay!”
There was an intense irritation in his manner as he said these words, and his wife looked up in a frightened way.
“Yes, yes, dear. Of course Doctor Scales will stay.”
“Then why don’t you ask him?” he continued in the same irritable manner. “A man won’t stop if the mistress of the house slights him.”
“But, my dear James,” cried Lady Scarlett, with the tears in her eyes, “I have not slighted Doctor Scales. On the contrary, I was begging that he would stay when you came in.”
“Why?—why?” exclaimed Scarlett, with increasing excitement. “You must have had some reason. Do you hear? Why did you ask him to stay?”
“Because I knew you wished it,” said Lady Scarlett meekly; “and I thought it would do you good to have him with you for a time, dear.”
“Do me good! Such sickly nonsense! Just as if I were ill. You put me out of patience, Kate; you do indeed. How can you be so childish!—Come into the garden, Jack. I’ll be back directly I’ve got my cigar-case.”
“Shall I fetch it, dear?” asked Lady Scarlett eagerly.
“No; of course not. Any one would think I was an invalid;” and he left the room.
“Lady Scarlett,” said the doctor, as soon as they were alone, “I will stay.”
“God bless you!” she cried, with a burst of sobbing; and she hurried away.
Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.Brother William at Home.Brother William went very regularly to the Scarletts, and took Fanny’s magazines, handing them to her always with an air of disgust, which resulted in their being snatched angrily away. Then he would sit down, and in due time partake of tea, dwelling over it, as it were, in a very bovine manner—the resemblance being the stronger whenever there was watercress or lettuce upon the table. In fact, there was something remarkably ruminative in Brother William’s slow, deliberate, contemplative way; while, to carry on the simile, there was a something almost in keeping in the manners of Martha Betts—a something that while you looked at the well-nurtured, smooth, pleasant, quiet woman, set the observer thinking of Lady Scarlett’s gentle Jersey cows, that came up, dewy lipped and sweet breathed, to blink and have their necks patted and ears pulled by those they knew.Injustice to Martha Betts, it must be said that she never allowed her neck to be patted nor her ears pulled by Brother William; and what was more, that stout yeoman farmer would never for a moment have thought of presuming to behave so to the lady of his choice; for that she was the lady of his choice he one day showed. It was a pleasant afternoon, and Brother William had been greatly enjoying a delicious full-hearted lettuce that John Monnick had brought in expressly for the servants’ tea. Perhaps it was the lettuce which inspired the proposal that was made during the temporary absence of Fanny from the tea-table.“Pretty girl, Fanny; ain’t she, Martha?”“Very; but I would not tell her so. She knows it quite enough.”“She do,” said Brother William; “and it’s a pity; but I’m used to it. She always was like that, from quite a little un; and it frets me a bit when I get thinking about her taking up with any one. You don’t know of any one, do you?”“Not that she’s taken with,” said Martha, in the quietest way. “There’s the ironmonger’s young man, and Colonel Sturt’s Scotch gardener; but Fanny won’t notice them.”“No,” said Brother William, biting a great half-moon out of a slice of bread-and-butter, and then looking at it regretfully, as much as to say: “See what havoc I have made.”—“No, she wouldn’t. I don’t expect she’ll have any one at all.”“Oh, there’s no knowing,” said Martha, refilling the visitor’s cup.“No; there’s no knowing,” assented Brother William; and there was silence for a few minutes.“You’ve never been over to see my farm, Martha Betts,” said Brother William, then.“No; I have never been,” assented Martha in her quiet way.“I should like you to come over alone, and see it,” said Brother William; “but I know you wouldn’t.”“No; I would not,” said Martha.—“Was your last cup sweet enough?”“Just right,” said Brother William thoughtfully.—“But you would come along with Fanny, and have tea, and look round at the beasts and the crops?”“Yes,” said Martha, in the most matter-of-fact manner, as if the proposal had not the least interest for her. “But Fanny would not care to come.”“I’ll make her,” said Brother William quietly; and he went on ruminating and gazing sleepily at the presiding genius of the tea-table. Then Fanny came back, took a magazine from her pocket, and went on reading and partaking of her tea at the same time, till Brother William said suddenly: “Fanny, I’ve asked Martha Betts and you to come over to tea o’ Friday, at the farm. Be in good time. I’ll walk back with you both.”Fanny looked up sharply, and was about to decline the honour, when a thought that made her foolish little heart beat, and a quiet but firm look from her brother’s eye, altered her intention, and she, to Martha’s surprise, said calmly: “Oh, very well. We will be over by four—if we can get leave.”There was no difficulty about getting leave, for Fanny took the first opportunity of asking her mistress, and that first opportunity was one day when Lady Scarlett was busy in the study with Arthur Prayle.Lady Scarlett looked up as the girl paused and hesitated, after taking in a letter; and Arthur Prayle also looked up and gazed calmly at the changing colour in the handsome face.“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Scarlett.“I was going to ask, ma’am, if I might go with Martha—on Friday—to my brother’s farm—to tea. My brother would bring us back by ten; or if you liked, ma’am, I could come back alone much sooner, if you wanted me.”“Oh, certainly, Fanny. You can go. I like you to have a change sometimes.”“And shall I come back, ma’am—about nine?” said the girl eagerly.“O no; certainly not,” replied Lady Scarlett. “Come back with Martha, under your brother’s charge. I don’t think you ought to come back alone.”Lady Scarlett inadvertently turned her face in the direction of Prayle, as she spoke, and found his eyes fixed upon her gravely, as he rested his elbows on the table and kept his finger-tips together.“Certainly not,” he said softly. “You are quite right, I think;” and he bowed his head in a quiet serious manner, as if giving the matter his entire approval.Fanny said, “Thank you, ma’am;” and it might have been supposed that this extension of time would have afforded her gratification; but an analyst of the human countenance would have said that there was something almost spiteful in the look which she bestowed upon Arthur Prayle, as she was about to leave the room.In due time the visit was paid, Fanny and Martha bestowing no little attention on their outward appearance; and upon crossing the bridge and taking the meadow-path, they were some little distance from the farm, when Brother William encountered them, with a very shiny face, as if polished for the occasion, and a rose in the button-hole of his velveteen coat.“How are you, Martha Betts?” he said, with a very bountiful smile; and he shook hands almost too heartily to be pleasant, even to one whose fingers were pretty well hardened with work.—“How are you, Fanny, lass?” he continued; and he was about to bestow upon the graceful well-dressed little body a fraternal hug and a kiss, but she repelled him.“No; don’t, William. There that will do. I’m very glad to see you; but I wish you wouldn’t be such a bear.”“Bear, eh?” said Brother William, with a disappointed look. “Why, I was only going to kiss you, lass. All right,” he said, smiling again. “But she mustn’t think of having a sweetheart, Martha Betts, or he’ll be wanting to hug her too.”Brother William’s face was a study as he let off this, to his way of thinking, very facetious remark. His bountiful smile expanded into an extremely broad grin, and he looked to Martha Betts for approval, but only to encounter so stern and grave a look, that his smile grew stiff, then hard, then faded away into an expression of pain, which in turn gave way to one that was stolid solemnity frozen hard.“It’s a nice day, ain’t it?” he said at last, to break the unpleasant silence that had fallen upon the little group, as they walked on between hedges bright with wild-roses, and over which the briony twined its long strands and spread its arrowy leaves. There was the scent of the sweet meadow-plant as it raised its creamy blossoms from every moist ditch; and borne on the breeze came the low sweet music of the weir.But somehow these various scents, sights, and sounds had grown common to the little party, or else their thoughts were on other matters, for Fanny the pretty seemed to be looking eagerly across the meadow towards the river and down every lane, as if expecting to see some one on the way towards them. From time to time she hung back, to pick and make little bouquets of wild-flowers, but only to throw them pettishly away, as she found that her brother and fellow-servant kept coming to a full stop till she rejoined them, when they went on once more.As for Brother William and Martha, they diligently avoided looking at one another, while their conversation was confined to a few words, and those were mostly from Brother William, who said on each of these occasions: “Hadn’t we best wait for Fanny?”To which Martha Betts responded: “Well, I suppose we had.”Martha seemed in nowise delighted with the appearance of the pretty cottage farm, with its low thick thatch and dense ivy, which covered the walls like a cloak. Neither was she excited by the sight of the old-fashioned garden, gay with homely flowers; but she did accept a rosebud, and a sprig of that pleasant herbaceous plant which Brother William called “Old Man,” pinning them tightly at the top of her dress with a very large pin, which her host took out of the edge of his waistcoat.“Thatisa pretty dress,” he said admiringly. “One o’ my favourite colours. There’s nowt like laylock and plum.”“I’m glad you like it,” said Martha quietly; and she then followed Brother William into the clean, homely keeping-room, where Joe’s wife—Joe being one of Brother William’s labourers—who did for him, as he expressed it, had prepared the tea, which was spread upon one of the whitest of cloths. Beside the ordinary preparations for the infusion of the Chinese leaf, there was an abundance of country delicacies—ham of the host’s own growing and curing; rich moist radishes; the yellowest of butter, so sweetly fresh as to be scented; the brownest of loaves, and the thickest of cream.Martha looked round at the bright homely furniture of the room, the bees’-waxed chairs, the polished bureau of walnut inlaid with brass, the ancient eight-day clock, and the side-table with its grey-and-red check cotton cover, highly decorated tea-tray, set up picture-fashion, and a few books.“Ah,” said Brother William, seeing the direction of his visitor’s eyes, “I haven’t got many books. That’s the owd Bible. Got mine and Fanny’s birthdays in. That’s mother’s owd hymn-book; and here’s a book here, if you like. If Fanny would lay that up by heart, ’stead o’ reading them penny gimcracks, she’d be a-doing herself some good.” As he spoke, he took up a well-used old book in a brown cover, which opened easily in his hand. “That’s Bowcroft’sFarmer’s Compendium, that is. I’ll lend it to you, if you like. Stodge-full of receipts for cattle-drinks and sheep-dressings; and there’s a gardener’s calendar in it too. I wouldn’t take fi’ pound for that book, Martha. There ain’t many like it, even up at Sir James Scarlett’s, I’ll be bound. That’s litrichur, that is.”Fanny did not enter with them. She preferred to have a good look at the garden, she said; and she lingered there for some time, her “good look at the garden” taking in a great many protracted looks up and down the lane, each of which was followed by a disappointed frown and a sigh.“Won’t you take off your bonnet and jacket, Martha Betts?” said Brother William. “You can go up to Fanny’s old bedroom, or you can hang ’em up behind the door on the Peg.”Martha thought she would hang them up on the peg that was behind the door; and Brother William looked stolidly on, but in an admiring way, as he saw the quick deft manner in which his visitor divested herself of these outdoor articles of garb, made her hair smooth with a touch, and then brought out an apron from her pocket, unrolled it, and from within, neatly folded so that it should not crease, one of those natty little scraps of lace that are pinned upon the top of the head and called by courtesy a cap.“Hah!” said Brother William, as the cap was adjusted and the apron fastened on; “the kettle is byling, but we may as well look round before you make the tea.”“Thank you,” said Martha calmly.“This is the washus,” said Brother William, opening a door to display a particularly clean whitewashed place, with red—brick floor. There was a copper in one corner; at one side, a great old-fashioned open fireplace with clumsy iron dogs, and within this fireplace, in what should have been the chimney corner, an iron door, nearly breast high.“That’s the brick oven,” said Brother William, noticing the bent of his visitor’s eyes. “We burn fuzz in it mostly; but any wood does. Them hooks is when we kill a pig. The water in that there pump over the sink’s soft: there’s a big tank outside. That other pump you see through the window’s the drinking-water. It never gets dry. Nice convenient washus; isn’t it?”“Very,” said Martha quietly; “only there ought to be a board put down front of the sink, for a body to stand on.”“There is one outside. Mrs Badley must ha’ left it there when she cleaned up,” cried Brother William eagerly; and Martha said “Oh!”Then he led the way back into the keeping-room, and opened a second door, while Martha’s quick eyes were taking in everything, not an article of furniture escaping her gaze; not that she was admiring or calculating their quality or value, but as if she were in search of some particular thing that so far she had found absent; this object being a spot of dirt.“This here’s the dairy,” said Brother William, entering, and holding open the double doors of the cool, dark, shady place—brick-floored, like the washhouse, but with a broad erection of red-brick all round like a rough dresser, upon which stood rows of white-lined pans, with a large white table in the middle, and the churn, scales, and beaters, and other utensils used in the preparation of the butter, along with the milk-pails at one end.Martha’s wandering eyes were as badly off as Noah’s dove in the early days after the flood; they could find no place to rest, for everything was scrupulously clean. The cream looked thick and heavy and almost tawny in its yellowness; and upon two large dishes were a couple of dozen rolls of delicious-looking butter, reposing beneath a piece of while muslin, ready for taking to market on the following day.“Myste and cool, isn’t it?” said Brother William. “You see it’s torst the north, and I’ve got elder-trees to shade the window as well.”Martha nodded, and continued her search for that spot of dirt which her reason told her must be somewhere; but certainly it was not hiding there.“There’s four cows in full milk now, Martha. Cream’s rich; isn’t it? Wait a moment.”“Where do you get your hot-water to scald the churn and things?” said Martha sharply, checking Brother William as he was moving towards the open door.“There’s a big byler in the kitchen,” said Brother William, eager to make the best of things; and then, as Martha said no more, but went on with her dirt quest, he left the dairy, and came back directly after with an old-fashioned, much worn, silver tablespoon.“I thought you wouldn’t mind tasting the cream, Martha. This here is ’bout the freshest,” he said, going to one of the broad shallow pans, inserting the spoon, which, Martha had seen at a glance, was beautifully clean, and gently drawing the cream sidewise, so that it crinkled all over, so thick was it and rich, and the spoon came out piled up as it were with the luscious produce of the little farm.Martha’s face was perfectly solemn, as she watched Brother William’s acts, and she did not move a muscle till he spoke.“Open your mouth,” he said seriously—“Wide.”Martha obeyed, and did open her mouth—wide, for it was rather a large mouth; but the lips were well shaped and red, and the teeth within were even and white.Brother William carefully placed the spoonful of cream within; and Martha closed her lips, solemnly imbibing the luscious spoonful, when, as a small portion was left visible at one corner, Brother William carefully removed it with an orange silk pocket-handkerchief; and Martha quietly said: “Thank you.”“Would you like to look at the cows now, or have tea?” said Brother William; whereupon Martha opined that it would be better to have tea, as Fanny would be expecting them.But Fanny was evidently not expecting them, and did not come in until Martha had made the tea and cut the bread-and-butter, Brother William leaning his arms on the back of the big, well bees’-waxed Windsor chair, and gazing at her busy fingers, as she spread the yellow butter and cut a plateful of slices.“Seems just as if you were doing it at home,” said Brother William; “only it looks nicer here.”Then Fanny was summoned, and Martha made way for her to preside at the tea-tray.“No; you’d better pour out,” the girl said absently. “I’d rather sit here.”“Here” was where she could see through the open window out into the road; and there she sat while the meal was discussed, little attention being paid to her by her brother, who divided his time between eating heartily himself, and pressing slices of ham upon Martha, who took her place in the most matter-of-fact way, and supplied her host’s wants, which were frequent, as the teacups were very small. In fact, so occupied with their meal were Brother William and Martha, that they did not notice a slow, deliberate step in the road, passing evidently down the lane; neither did they see that Fanny’s face, as she bent lower over her cup, became deeply suffused, and that she did not look up till the step had died away, when she uttered a low sigh, as if a burden had been removed from her breast.After that, though, they did notice that she became brighter and more willing to enter into conversation, seeming at last to take quite an interest in her brother’s account of the loss of a sheep through its getting upside down in a ditch; and she also expressed a feeling of satisfaction upon hearing that hay would fetch a good price in the autumn, so many people having had theirs spoiled.“Never mind me,” said Fanny, as soon as, between them, she and Martha had put away the tea-things: “I shall go into the garden and look round.”Brother William evidently did not mind her, for, in his slow deliberate way, he took off Martha to introduce her to the cows; after which she had to scrape acquaintance with the pigs, visit the poultry, who were somewhat disturbed, inasmuch as they were settling themselves in the positions that they were to occupy for the night, and made no little outcry in consequence. Then there were the sheep; and there was last year’s haystack, and this year’s, both of which had to be smelt, Brother William pulling out a good handful from each, to show Martha that there was not a trace of damp in either. This done, a happy thought seemed to strike Brother William, who turned to Martha and exclaimed: “I wonder whether you could churn?”“Let’s try,” said Martha, with the air of one who would have made the same answer if it had been the question of making a steam-engine or a watch.Brother William gave one of his legs a vigorous slap, and marched Martha back into the house, through into the dairy. Then he fetched a can of hot-water to rinse out and warm the churn. There was a pot of lumpy cream already waiting, and this was carefully poured in, the lid duly replaced, with the addition of a cloth, to keep the cream from splashing out, and then he stood and watched Martha, who was busily pinning up her dress all round. She then turned up her sleeves and took out a clean pocket-handkerchief, which she folded by laying one corner across to the other, and then tied it over her head and under her chin, making her pleasant comely face look so provocative, that Brother William drew a long breath, took a step forward, and was going to catch Martha in his arms; but he recollected himself in time, gave a slew round, and caught hold of the churn handle instead, and this he began to turn steadily round and round, as if intending to play a tune.“I thoughtIwas to make it,” said Martha quietly.“Oh, ah, yes, of course,” he said, resigning the handle; and then he drew back, as if it was not safe for him to stand there and watch, while Martha steadily turned and turned, and the cream within the snowy white sycamore box went “wish-wash, wish-wash, wish-wash,” playing, after all, a very delicious tune in the young farmer’s ears, for it suggested yellow butter, and yellow butter suggested sovereigns, and sovereigns suggested borne comforts and savings, and above all, the turning of that handle suggested the winning of just the very wife to occupy that home.Five minutes, and there was a glow of colour in Martha’s cheeks. Five minutes more, and the colour was in her brow as well.“You are tired now,” said Brother William. “Let me turn.”“No; I mean to make it,” she replied, tightening her lips and turning steadily away.Another five minutes, and there was a very red spot on Martha’s chin, and her lips were apart; but she turned away, with Brother William quite rapt in admiration at the patient perseverance displayed; and in fact, if it had been a question of another hour, Martha would have kept on turning till she dropped. She did not speak, neither did Brother William; but his admiration increased. Their eyes never met, for Martha’s were fixed steadfastly upon one particular red-brick; not that it was dirty, for it was of a brighter red than the others; and she turned and turned, first with one hand, then with the other, till there was a change in the “wish-wash, wish-wash” in the churn, and then Brother William exclaimed: “That’s done it! Butter!”“Hah!” ejaculated Martha, with a heavy sigh, and her breath came all the faster for the exertion.“Look at it!” cried Brother William, taking the lid off the churn. “Can you see?”Martha was rather short; hence, perhaps, it was that Brother William placed his arm round her waist to raise her slightly; and he was not looking at the butter, and Martha was not looking at it either, but up at him, as he bent down a little lower, and somehow, without having had the slightest intention of doing so the moment before, Brother William gave Martha a very long and solemn kiss.She shrank away from him the next moment, and looked up at him reproachfully. “You shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s so wrong.”“Is it?” he said dolefully. “I’m very sorry. I couldn’t help it, Martha. You made the butter so beautifully. Don’t be cross.”“I’m not cross,” she said, untying the handkerchief, and then proceeding to take out the pins from her dress, holding them between her lips, points outwards; “only you mustn’t do so again.”Brother William said: “Well, I won’t;” and then, as the pins were taken from Martha’s red lips—so great is the falsity of man—he bent down and let his lips take the place of the pins, and Martha said never a word.“Joe’s wife said yesterday that she didn’t mean to come and do for me much longer,” said Brother William suddenly.“Why not?” said Martha.“Because she said I’d best ask you.”“And are you going to ask me, William?”“Yes. When will you come altogether?” he said softly.Martha glanced round once more, as if in search of that spot of dirt which would keep eluding her search. Then she raised her eyes to Brother William’s shirt front with a triumphant flash, feeling sure that she would see a button off, or a worn hole; but there was neither; and when she turned her eyes upon his hands, the wristbands were not a bit frayed.“I don’t know,” she said dubiously. “Do you want me to come?”He nodded, and they went out of the dairy into the sitting room.“I’ll tell Fanny,” he said. “I hope she’ll be pleased.”But Fanny was not there; and when they went into the garden, she was not there either, nor yet in the orchard.“She must have gone down the lane,” said Brother William—“down towards the river. Let’s go and see.”They went out together, with Martha making no scruple now about holding on by Brother William’s sturdy arm. But though they walked nearly down to the river, Fanny was not there.“She’ll be cross, and think we neglected her,” said Martha. “I am sorry we went away.”“I’m not,” said Brother William, trying to be facetious for the second time that evening. “We’ve made half a dozen pounds o’ butter, and a match.”Martha shook her head.“Let’s go back and see if she went up to the wood,” cried Brother William.“She’s reading somewhere,” said Martha as they walked back, to find Fanny standing by the gate, looking slightly flushed and very pretty, ready to smile and banter them for being away so long.They soon ended the visit to the farm; for, after partaking of supper, and eating one of Brother William’s own carefully grown lettuces, they walked slowly back, in the soft moist evening air, to the Rosery, when, during the leave-takings, Brother William said: “Fanny, Martha’s going to be my wife.”“Is she?” said Fanny indifferently. “Oh!” And then to herself: “Poor things! What a common, ordinary-looking woman Martha is. And Brother William—Ah, what a degrading life this is!”The degradation did not seem to affect the others, for Brother William’s cheeks quite shone, and the high lights on Martha’s two glossy smooth hands of hair seemed to be brighter than ever.“Good-night,” said Brother William. “Good-night, Martha.”“Good-night, William.”“You’ll keep a sharp eye on Fanny till I fetch you away; won’t you?”“I always do, William; but I’m afraid her eyes are sharper than mine.”“What do you mean?” he said quietly.“I’m afraid she’s got a sweetheart.”“Who is it?” said Brother William sternly.“I don’t know yet. Sometimes I think it’s a real one, and sometimes I think it’s all sham—only one out of her magazines that she talks about; but I’m not sure.”“Then look here, Martha: you’ve got to be sure,” said Brother William, who was as business-like now as if he had been selling his hay. “You’ve got to make sure, and tell me, for I’m not going to have anybody play the fool with her. If any one does, there’ll be something the matter somewhere;” and shaking his head very fiercely, Brother William strode away, giving a thump with his stick at every step along the road.End of Volume One.
Brother William went very regularly to the Scarletts, and took Fanny’s magazines, handing them to her always with an air of disgust, which resulted in their being snatched angrily away. Then he would sit down, and in due time partake of tea, dwelling over it, as it were, in a very bovine manner—the resemblance being the stronger whenever there was watercress or lettuce upon the table. In fact, there was something remarkably ruminative in Brother William’s slow, deliberate, contemplative way; while, to carry on the simile, there was a something almost in keeping in the manners of Martha Betts—a something that while you looked at the well-nurtured, smooth, pleasant, quiet woman, set the observer thinking of Lady Scarlett’s gentle Jersey cows, that came up, dewy lipped and sweet breathed, to blink and have their necks patted and ears pulled by those they knew.
Injustice to Martha Betts, it must be said that she never allowed her neck to be patted nor her ears pulled by Brother William; and what was more, that stout yeoman farmer would never for a moment have thought of presuming to behave so to the lady of his choice; for that she was the lady of his choice he one day showed. It was a pleasant afternoon, and Brother William had been greatly enjoying a delicious full-hearted lettuce that John Monnick had brought in expressly for the servants’ tea. Perhaps it was the lettuce which inspired the proposal that was made during the temporary absence of Fanny from the tea-table.
“Pretty girl, Fanny; ain’t she, Martha?”
“Very; but I would not tell her so. She knows it quite enough.”
“She do,” said Brother William; “and it’s a pity; but I’m used to it. She always was like that, from quite a little un; and it frets me a bit when I get thinking about her taking up with any one. You don’t know of any one, do you?”
“Not that she’s taken with,” said Martha, in the quietest way. “There’s the ironmonger’s young man, and Colonel Sturt’s Scotch gardener; but Fanny won’t notice them.”
“No,” said Brother William, biting a great half-moon out of a slice of bread-and-butter, and then looking at it regretfully, as much as to say: “See what havoc I have made.”—“No, she wouldn’t. I don’t expect she’ll have any one at all.”
“Oh, there’s no knowing,” said Martha, refilling the visitor’s cup.
“No; there’s no knowing,” assented Brother William; and there was silence for a few minutes.
“You’ve never been over to see my farm, Martha Betts,” said Brother William, then.
“No; I have never been,” assented Martha in her quiet way.
“I should like you to come over alone, and see it,” said Brother William; “but I know you wouldn’t.”
“No; I would not,” said Martha.—“Was your last cup sweet enough?”
“Just right,” said Brother William thoughtfully.—“But you would come along with Fanny, and have tea, and look round at the beasts and the crops?”
“Yes,” said Martha, in the most matter-of-fact manner, as if the proposal had not the least interest for her. “But Fanny would not care to come.”
“I’ll make her,” said Brother William quietly; and he went on ruminating and gazing sleepily at the presiding genius of the tea-table. Then Fanny came back, took a magazine from her pocket, and went on reading and partaking of her tea at the same time, till Brother William said suddenly: “Fanny, I’ve asked Martha Betts and you to come over to tea o’ Friday, at the farm. Be in good time. I’ll walk back with you both.”
Fanny looked up sharply, and was about to decline the honour, when a thought that made her foolish little heart beat, and a quiet but firm look from her brother’s eye, altered her intention, and she, to Martha’s surprise, said calmly: “Oh, very well. We will be over by four—if we can get leave.”
There was no difficulty about getting leave, for Fanny took the first opportunity of asking her mistress, and that first opportunity was one day when Lady Scarlett was busy in the study with Arthur Prayle.
Lady Scarlett looked up as the girl paused and hesitated, after taking in a letter; and Arthur Prayle also looked up and gazed calmly at the changing colour in the handsome face.
“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Scarlett.
“I was going to ask, ma’am, if I might go with Martha—on Friday—to my brother’s farm—to tea. My brother would bring us back by ten; or if you liked, ma’am, I could come back alone much sooner, if you wanted me.”
“Oh, certainly, Fanny. You can go. I like you to have a change sometimes.”
“And shall I come back, ma’am—about nine?” said the girl eagerly.
“O no; certainly not,” replied Lady Scarlett. “Come back with Martha, under your brother’s charge. I don’t think you ought to come back alone.”
Lady Scarlett inadvertently turned her face in the direction of Prayle, as she spoke, and found his eyes fixed upon her gravely, as he rested his elbows on the table and kept his finger-tips together.
“Certainly not,” he said softly. “You are quite right, I think;” and he bowed his head in a quiet serious manner, as if giving the matter his entire approval.
Fanny said, “Thank you, ma’am;” and it might have been supposed that this extension of time would have afforded her gratification; but an analyst of the human countenance would have said that there was something almost spiteful in the look which she bestowed upon Arthur Prayle, as she was about to leave the room.
In due time the visit was paid, Fanny and Martha bestowing no little attention on their outward appearance; and upon crossing the bridge and taking the meadow-path, they were some little distance from the farm, when Brother William encountered them, with a very shiny face, as if polished for the occasion, and a rose in the button-hole of his velveteen coat.
“How are you, Martha Betts?” he said, with a very bountiful smile; and he shook hands almost too heartily to be pleasant, even to one whose fingers were pretty well hardened with work.—“How are you, Fanny, lass?” he continued; and he was about to bestow upon the graceful well-dressed little body a fraternal hug and a kiss, but she repelled him.
“No; don’t, William. There that will do. I’m very glad to see you; but I wish you wouldn’t be such a bear.”
“Bear, eh?” said Brother William, with a disappointed look. “Why, I was only going to kiss you, lass. All right,” he said, smiling again. “But she mustn’t think of having a sweetheart, Martha Betts, or he’ll be wanting to hug her too.”
Brother William’s face was a study as he let off this, to his way of thinking, very facetious remark. His bountiful smile expanded into an extremely broad grin, and he looked to Martha Betts for approval, but only to encounter so stern and grave a look, that his smile grew stiff, then hard, then faded away into an expression of pain, which in turn gave way to one that was stolid solemnity frozen hard.
“It’s a nice day, ain’t it?” he said at last, to break the unpleasant silence that had fallen upon the little group, as they walked on between hedges bright with wild-roses, and over which the briony twined its long strands and spread its arrowy leaves. There was the scent of the sweet meadow-plant as it raised its creamy blossoms from every moist ditch; and borne on the breeze came the low sweet music of the weir.
But somehow these various scents, sights, and sounds had grown common to the little party, or else their thoughts were on other matters, for Fanny the pretty seemed to be looking eagerly across the meadow towards the river and down every lane, as if expecting to see some one on the way towards them. From time to time she hung back, to pick and make little bouquets of wild-flowers, but only to throw them pettishly away, as she found that her brother and fellow-servant kept coming to a full stop till she rejoined them, when they went on once more.
As for Brother William and Martha, they diligently avoided looking at one another, while their conversation was confined to a few words, and those were mostly from Brother William, who said on each of these occasions: “Hadn’t we best wait for Fanny?”
To which Martha Betts responded: “Well, I suppose we had.”
Martha seemed in nowise delighted with the appearance of the pretty cottage farm, with its low thick thatch and dense ivy, which covered the walls like a cloak. Neither was she excited by the sight of the old-fashioned garden, gay with homely flowers; but she did accept a rosebud, and a sprig of that pleasant herbaceous plant which Brother William called “Old Man,” pinning them tightly at the top of her dress with a very large pin, which her host took out of the edge of his waistcoat.
“Thatisa pretty dress,” he said admiringly. “One o’ my favourite colours. There’s nowt like laylock and plum.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Martha quietly; and she then followed Brother William into the clean, homely keeping-room, where Joe’s wife—Joe being one of Brother William’s labourers—who did for him, as he expressed it, had prepared the tea, which was spread upon one of the whitest of cloths. Beside the ordinary preparations for the infusion of the Chinese leaf, there was an abundance of country delicacies—ham of the host’s own growing and curing; rich moist radishes; the yellowest of butter, so sweetly fresh as to be scented; the brownest of loaves, and the thickest of cream.
Martha looked round at the bright homely furniture of the room, the bees’-waxed chairs, the polished bureau of walnut inlaid with brass, the ancient eight-day clock, and the side-table with its grey-and-red check cotton cover, highly decorated tea-tray, set up picture-fashion, and a few books.
“Ah,” said Brother William, seeing the direction of his visitor’s eyes, “I haven’t got many books. That’s the owd Bible. Got mine and Fanny’s birthdays in. That’s mother’s owd hymn-book; and here’s a book here, if you like. If Fanny would lay that up by heart, ’stead o’ reading them penny gimcracks, she’d be a-doing herself some good.” As he spoke, he took up a well-used old book in a brown cover, which opened easily in his hand. “That’s Bowcroft’sFarmer’s Compendium, that is. I’ll lend it to you, if you like. Stodge-full of receipts for cattle-drinks and sheep-dressings; and there’s a gardener’s calendar in it too. I wouldn’t take fi’ pound for that book, Martha. There ain’t many like it, even up at Sir James Scarlett’s, I’ll be bound. That’s litrichur, that is.”
Fanny did not enter with them. She preferred to have a good look at the garden, she said; and she lingered there for some time, her “good look at the garden” taking in a great many protracted looks up and down the lane, each of which was followed by a disappointed frown and a sigh.
“Won’t you take off your bonnet and jacket, Martha Betts?” said Brother William. “You can go up to Fanny’s old bedroom, or you can hang ’em up behind the door on the Peg.”
Martha thought she would hang them up on the peg that was behind the door; and Brother William looked stolidly on, but in an admiring way, as he saw the quick deft manner in which his visitor divested herself of these outdoor articles of garb, made her hair smooth with a touch, and then brought out an apron from her pocket, unrolled it, and from within, neatly folded so that it should not crease, one of those natty little scraps of lace that are pinned upon the top of the head and called by courtesy a cap.
“Hah!” said Brother William, as the cap was adjusted and the apron fastened on; “the kettle is byling, but we may as well look round before you make the tea.”
“Thank you,” said Martha calmly.
“This is the washus,” said Brother William, opening a door to display a particularly clean whitewashed place, with red—brick floor. There was a copper in one corner; at one side, a great old-fashioned open fireplace with clumsy iron dogs, and within this fireplace, in what should have been the chimney corner, an iron door, nearly breast high.
“That’s the brick oven,” said Brother William, noticing the bent of his visitor’s eyes. “We burn fuzz in it mostly; but any wood does. Them hooks is when we kill a pig. The water in that there pump over the sink’s soft: there’s a big tank outside. That other pump you see through the window’s the drinking-water. It never gets dry. Nice convenient washus; isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Martha quietly; “only there ought to be a board put down front of the sink, for a body to stand on.”
“There is one outside. Mrs Badley must ha’ left it there when she cleaned up,” cried Brother William eagerly; and Martha said “Oh!”
Then he led the way back into the keeping-room, and opened a second door, while Martha’s quick eyes were taking in everything, not an article of furniture escaping her gaze; not that she was admiring or calculating their quality or value, but as if she were in search of some particular thing that so far she had found absent; this object being a spot of dirt.
“This here’s the dairy,” said Brother William, entering, and holding open the double doors of the cool, dark, shady place—brick-floored, like the washhouse, but with a broad erection of red-brick all round like a rough dresser, upon which stood rows of white-lined pans, with a large white table in the middle, and the churn, scales, and beaters, and other utensils used in the preparation of the butter, along with the milk-pails at one end.
Martha’s wandering eyes were as badly off as Noah’s dove in the early days after the flood; they could find no place to rest, for everything was scrupulously clean. The cream looked thick and heavy and almost tawny in its yellowness; and upon two large dishes were a couple of dozen rolls of delicious-looking butter, reposing beneath a piece of while muslin, ready for taking to market on the following day.
“Myste and cool, isn’t it?” said Brother William. “You see it’s torst the north, and I’ve got elder-trees to shade the window as well.”
Martha nodded, and continued her search for that spot of dirt which her reason told her must be somewhere; but certainly it was not hiding there.
“There’s four cows in full milk now, Martha. Cream’s rich; isn’t it? Wait a moment.”
“Where do you get your hot-water to scald the churn and things?” said Martha sharply, checking Brother William as he was moving towards the open door.
“There’s a big byler in the kitchen,” said Brother William, eager to make the best of things; and then, as Martha said no more, but went on with her dirt quest, he left the dairy, and came back directly after with an old-fashioned, much worn, silver tablespoon.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind tasting the cream, Martha. This here is ’bout the freshest,” he said, going to one of the broad shallow pans, inserting the spoon, which, Martha had seen at a glance, was beautifully clean, and gently drawing the cream sidewise, so that it crinkled all over, so thick was it and rich, and the spoon came out piled up as it were with the luscious produce of the little farm.
Martha’s face was perfectly solemn, as she watched Brother William’s acts, and she did not move a muscle till he spoke.
“Open your mouth,” he said seriously—“Wide.”
Martha obeyed, and did open her mouth—wide, for it was rather a large mouth; but the lips were well shaped and red, and the teeth within were even and white.
Brother William carefully placed the spoonful of cream within; and Martha closed her lips, solemnly imbibing the luscious spoonful, when, as a small portion was left visible at one corner, Brother William carefully removed it with an orange silk pocket-handkerchief; and Martha quietly said: “Thank you.”
“Would you like to look at the cows now, or have tea?” said Brother William; whereupon Martha opined that it would be better to have tea, as Fanny would be expecting them.
But Fanny was evidently not expecting them, and did not come in until Martha had made the tea and cut the bread-and-butter, Brother William leaning his arms on the back of the big, well bees’-waxed Windsor chair, and gazing at her busy fingers, as she spread the yellow butter and cut a plateful of slices.
“Seems just as if you were doing it at home,” said Brother William; “only it looks nicer here.”
Then Fanny was summoned, and Martha made way for her to preside at the tea-tray.
“No; you’d better pour out,” the girl said absently. “I’d rather sit here.”
“Here” was where she could see through the open window out into the road; and there she sat while the meal was discussed, little attention being paid to her by her brother, who divided his time between eating heartily himself, and pressing slices of ham upon Martha, who took her place in the most matter-of-fact way, and supplied her host’s wants, which were frequent, as the teacups were very small. In fact, so occupied with their meal were Brother William and Martha, that they did not notice a slow, deliberate step in the road, passing evidently down the lane; neither did they see that Fanny’s face, as she bent lower over her cup, became deeply suffused, and that she did not look up till the step had died away, when she uttered a low sigh, as if a burden had been removed from her breast.
After that, though, they did notice that she became brighter and more willing to enter into conversation, seeming at last to take quite an interest in her brother’s account of the loss of a sheep through its getting upside down in a ditch; and she also expressed a feeling of satisfaction upon hearing that hay would fetch a good price in the autumn, so many people having had theirs spoiled.
“Never mind me,” said Fanny, as soon as, between them, she and Martha had put away the tea-things: “I shall go into the garden and look round.”
Brother William evidently did not mind her, for, in his slow deliberate way, he took off Martha to introduce her to the cows; after which she had to scrape acquaintance with the pigs, visit the poultry, who were somewhat disturbed, inasmuch as they were settling themselves in the positions that they were to occupy for the night, and made no little outcry in consequence. Then there were the sheep; and there was last year’s haystack, and this year’s, both of which had to be smelt, Brother William pulling out a good handful from each, to show Martha that there was not a trace of damp in either. This done, a happy thought seemed to strike Brother William, who turned to Martha and exclaimed: “I wonder whether you could churn?”
“Let’s try,” said Martha, with the air of one who would have made the same answer if it had been the question of making a steam-engine or a watch.
Brother William gave one of his legs a vigorous slap, and marched Martha back into the house, through into the dairy. Then he fetched a can of hot-water to rinse out and warm the churn. There was a pot of lumpy cream already waiting, and this was carefully poured in, the lid duly replaced, with the addition of a cloth, to keep the cream from splashing out, and then he stood and watched Martha, who was busily pinning up her dress all round. She then turned up her sleeves and took out a clean pocket-handkerchief, which she folded by laying one corner across to the other, and then tied it over her head and under her chin, making her pleasant comely face look so provocative, that Brother William drew a long breath, took a step forward, and was going to catch Martha in his arms; but he recollected himself in time, gave a slew round, and caught hold of the churn handle instead, and this he began to turn steadily round and round, as if intending to play a tune.
“I thoughtIwas to make it,” said Martha quietly.
“Oh, ah, yes, of course,” he said, resigning the handle; and then he drew back, as if it was not safe for him to stand there and watch, while Martha steadily turned and turned, and the cream within the snowy white sycamore box went “wish-wash, wish-wash, wish-wash,” playing, after all, a very delicious tune in the young farmer’s ears, for it suggested yellow butter, and yellow butter suggested sovereigns, and sovereigns suggested borne comforts and savings, and above all, the turning of that handle suggested the winning of just the very wife to occupy that home.
Five minutes, and there was a glow of colour in Martha’s cheeks. Five minutes more, and the colour was in her brow as well.
“You are tired now,” said Brother William. “Let me turn.”
“No; I mean to make it,” she replied, tightening her lips and turning steadily away.
Another five minutes, and there was a very red spot on Martha’s chin, and her lips were apart; but she turned away, with Brother William quite rapt in admiration at the patient perseverance displayed; and in fact, if it had been a question of another hour, Martha would have kept on turning till she dropped. She did not speak, neither did Brother William; but his admiration increased. Their eyes never met, for Martha’s were fixed steadfastly upon one particular red-brick; not that it was dirty, for it was of a brighter red than the others; and she turned and turned, first with one hand, then with the other, till there was a change in the “wish-wash, wish-wash” in the churn, and then Brother William exclaimed: “That’s done it! Butter!”
“Hah!” ejaculated Martha, with a heavy sigh, and her breath came all the faster for the exertion.
“Look at it!” cried Brother William, taking the lid off the churn. “Can you see?”
Martha was rather short; hence, perhaps, it was that Brother William placed his arm round her waist to raise her slightly; and he was not looking at the butter, and Martha was not looking at it either, but up at him, as he bent down a little lower, and somehow, without having had the slightest intention of doing so the moment before, Brother William gave Martha a very long and solemn kiss.
She shrank away from him the next moment, and looked up at him reproachfully. “You shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s so wrong.”
“Is it?” he said dolefully. “I’m very sorry. I couldn’t help it, Martha. You made the butter so beautifully. Don’t be cross.”
“I’m not cross,” she said, untying the handkerchief, and then proceeding to take out the pins from her dress, holding them between her lips, points outwards; “only you mustn’t do so again.”
Brother William said: “Well, I won’t;” and then, as the pins were taken from Martha’s red lips—so great is the falsity of man—he bent down and let his lips take the place of the pins, and Martha said never a word.
“Joe’s wife said yesterday that she didn’t mean to come and do for me much longer,” said Brother William suddenly.
“Why not?” said Martha.
“Because she said I’d best ask you.”
“And are you going to ask me, William?”
“Yes. When will you come altogether?” he said softly.
Martha glanced round once more, as if in search of that spot of dirt which would keep eluding her search. Then she raised her eyes to Brother William’s shirt front with a triumphant flash, feeling sure that she would see a button off, or a worn hole; but there was neither; and when she turned her eyes upon his hands, the wristbands were not a bit frayed.
“I don’t know,” she said dubiously. “Do you want me to come?”
He nodded, and they went out of the dairy into the sitting room.
“I’ll tell Fanny,” he said. “I hope she’ll be pleased.”
But Fanny was not there; and when they went into the garden, she was not there either, nor yet in the orchard.
“She must have gone down the lane,” said Brother William—“down towards the river. Let’s go and see.”
They went out together, with Martha making no scruple now about holding on by Brother William’s sturdy arm. But though they walked nearly down to the river, Fanny was not there.
“She’ll be cross, and think we neglected her,” said Martha. “I am sorry we went away.”
“I’m not,” said Brother William, trying to be facetious for the second time that evening. “We’ve made half a dozen pounds o’ butter, and a match.”
Martha shook her head.
“Let’s go back and see if she went up to the wood,” cried Brother William.
“She’s reading somewhere,” said Martha as they walked back, to find Fanny standing by the gate, looking slightly flushed and very pretty, ready to smile and banter them for being away so long.
They soon ended the visit to the farm; for, after partaking of supper, and eating one of Brother William’s own carefully grown lettuces, they walked slowly back, in the soft moist evening air, to the Rosery, when, during the leave-takings, Brother William said: “Fanny, Martha’s going to be my wife.”
“Is she?” said Fanny indifferently. “Oh!” And then to herself: “Poor things! What a common, ordinary-looking woman Martha is. And Brother William—Ah, what a degrading life this is!”
The degradation did not seem to affect the others, for Brother William’s cheeks quite shone, and the high lights on Martha’s two glossy smooth hands of hair seemed to be brighter than ever.
“Good-night,” said Brother William. “Good-night, Martha.”
“Good-night, William.”
“You’ll keep a sharp eye on Fanny till I fetch you away; won’t you?”
“I always do, William; but I’m afraid her eyes are sharper than mine.”
“What do you mean?” he said quietly.
“I’m afraid she’s got a sweetheart.”
“Who is it?” said Brother William sternly.
“I don’t know yet. Sometimes I think it’s a real one, and sometimes I think it’s all sham—only one out of her magazines that she talks about; but I’m not sure.”
“Then look here, Martha: you’ve got to be sure,” said Brother William, who was as business-like now as if he had been selling his hay. “You’ve got to make sure, and tell me, for I’m not going to have anybody play the fool with her. If any one does, there’ll be something the matter somewhere;” and shaking his head very fiercely, Brother William strode away, giving a thump with his stick at every step along the road.