“Ah, it’s rheumatism, old lady, rheumatism.”
“There man, as if I didn’t know that. Think I’ve had these aggynies a-coming on at every change of the wind, and not know as it’s rheumatiz, why, as I says to Miss Lucy Alling, there, as comes over from the big house a’side the common yonder, and brought me a few bits o’ chicking, and sits herself down in that very chair, ‘I’ve had ’em too many years now, my dear, not to know as they’re rheumatiz. I’ll ask Doctor Oldroyd,’ I says, ‘to give me some of they old iles as used to be got when I was younger than I am.’ Fine things they was for the rheumatiz, but they don’t seem to be able to get ’em now.”
Oldroyd moved uneasily in his seat, as he learned how lately Lucy had been there, and that she had occupied the very chair he was in. Then he hastily proceeded to cross-examine the poor old woman about her troubles, every answer he received going to prove that, for an old lady over ninety, Mrs Wattley was about as well preserved and healthy a specimen of humanity as it would be possible to find.
“Ah, well,” said Oldroyd at last, “I daresay I shall be able to give you a little comfort. You’ll have to take some medicine, though.”
“Nay, nay, I want the iles, and I want ’em rubbed in,” cried the old lady. “Nothing ever did me so much good as they iles; and I know what it all means – waiting three or four days afore I gets the medson to take.”
“Now, what is this,” said Oldroyd, smiling; “I have brought it with me.”
As he spoke he took a bottle from the breast of his coat.
“Then it’s pyson, and you’re going to give it to get rid of me, just a cause you parish doctors won’t take the trouble to attend poor people. I know; you want to get rid of me, you do.”
“How can you talk like that? Have I ever neglected you?”
“Well, p’r’aps not so much as him as was here afore you did. He neglecket me shameful. But you’ve got tired of me, and you want to see me put under ground.”
“What makes you say that?” said Oldroyd, laughing.
“’Cause you want me to take that physic as isn’t proper for me.”
“Why you comical, prejudiced old woman,” he said, “it is the best thing I can give you.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t. I know better,” cried the old lady. “Don’t tell me. I may be ninety, but I a’n’t lived to ninety without knowing as one physic a’n’t good for everything.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” cried Oldroyd, laughing. “You think I haven’t got the right stuff for you.”
“Ah, it’s nothing to laugh at, young man. I’m not a fool. How could you know what was the matter with me before you come, and so bring the stuff? I a’n’t a cow, as only wants one kind of physic all its life.”
“Nay, I did know what was the matter with you,” cried Oldroyd, taking the poor, prejudiced old things hand, to speak kindly and seriously though with a little politic flattery. “The boy came to me and said you were ill, and I immediately, knowing you as I do, said to myself – now with such a constitution as Mrs Wattley has, there can only be one of two things the matter with her; someone has carelessly left a door or window open, and given her cold; or else she has got a touch of rheumatism.”
“And so you brought physic for a cold,” said the old woman sharply.
“No. I knew you would be too careful to let anyone neglect your doors and windows.”
“That I would,” cried the old lady. “I fetched that Judy back with a flea in her ear only the day afore yesterday. I shouted till she came back and shut my door after her – a slut. She thinks of nothing but young men.”
“You see I was right,” continued Oldroyd. “I felt sure it was not cold, and, on looking out, saw that the wind had got round to the east, so I mixed up his prescription, the best thing there is for rheumatism, and came on at once.”
“Is it as good as the iles, young man?”
“Far better; and I’m sure you will find relief.”
“Well, you are right about the wind, for I felt it in my bones as soon as it got round; so, p’r’aps you’re right about the physic. I dunno, though, you’re only a boy, and not likely to know much. It’s a pity they send such young fellows as you to take charge of a parish. But the guardians don’t care a bit. They’d like to see all the old uns go under, the sooner the better. Not as I’m beholden to ’em for aught but a drop o’ physic. I can do without ’em, I daresay, for a good many years yet.”
“To be sure you can,” said Oldroyd, smiling rather gravely, as he looked at the ancient face before him.
“Ay, I can do without ’em; and now, look here, young man, you set me right again. I’ve got four shillings put aside, and I’ll give you that.”
“I daresay I can set you right again without the four shillings,” said Oldroyd, “but not if you begin by calling me a boy.”
“There’s naught to be ashamed of in being a boy,” cried the old woman sharply. “I wish I was a gal now, and could begin all over again.”
“No, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, old lady, but you must trust me, and take my medicine.”
“I won’t – I won’t swallow a drop, if you don’t take your oath it’s quite right, and will do me good, and won’t pyson me.”
For answer Oldroyd rose from his seat, and took a cup from a shelf, into which he poured a portion of the medicine.
“There, it’s no use, young man, I won’t take a dose.”
“Look here,” cried Oldroyd; and putting the cup to his lips, he swallowed all that was at the bottom.
“You’re going to spit it out again as soon as you get outside.”
“Nonsense!” cried Oldroyd, laughing heartily as he poured out a fresh portion. “There, there, take it, and get well again.”
“You’re sure it’s right, and that it won’t hurt me?”
“I’m sure it will comfort you, and correct what is wrong.”
She watched him with her bright old eyes full of suspicion, and ended by taking the cup very doubtfully and swallowing its contents with a childlike shudder.
“There, give me a bit of sugar out of that basin, young man,” she cried emphatically; and, upon her desire being gratified, she settled herself down again in bed with a satisfied sigh.
“Ah, I feel better now,” she said. “I suppose you are not quite so young as you look, are you?”
“Really, Mrs Wattley, I don’t know,” replied Oldroyd, smiling.
“Perhaps you ar’n’t,” she continued looking at him critically. “I daresay you’re clever enough, or else you wouldn’t be here; but we ladies don’t like to have a single man to see us when we are ill. You ought to be married, you know.”
“Do you think so?” said Oldroyd, looking rather conscious, as he thought of his prospects, matrimonially and financially.
“Yes, I do think so,” said the old lady tartly, and in a very dictatorial manner. “Look here, young man, there’s little Miss Lucy, who comes to see me now and then. Marry her, and if you behave yourself, perhaps I’ll leave you my cottage and ground. I sha’n’t leave ’em to Judy, for she don’t deserve ’em a bit.”
“Leave them to your relatives, old lady; and suppose we turn back to the rheumatism,” said Oldroyd, half-amused and half-annoyed by his patient’s remarks.
“Ay, we’ll talk about that by-and-by. I want to talk about you. My rheumatics is better a’ready – that’s done me a mint o’ good, young man, and I shouldn’t mind seeing you married, for it would be a deal better for you, and I daresay I should call you in a bit more oftener. What, are you going?”
“Yes; I have the pony waiting, and I must get back.”
“Humph! I didn’t know as you could afford to keep a pony, young man. Why don’t you walk? – keep you better and stronger – and save your money. Ah, well! you may go then; and mind what I said to you. You may as well have the bit of land and Miss Lucy, but you won’t get it yet, so don’t think it. My father was a hundred and two when he died, and I’m only just past ninety, so don’t expect too much.”
“I will not,” said Oldroyd, smiling at the helpless old creature, and thinking how contentedly she bore her fate of living quite alone by the roadside, and with the nearest cottage far away.
“You’ll come and see me to-morrow?” said the old lady, as the doctor stood at the door. “You’re not so busy that you can’t spare time, so don’t you try to tell me that.”
“No, I shall not be too busy,” replied Oldroyd; “I’ll come.”
“And mind you recollect about her. She would just suit you; she nusses so nicely, and – ”
Philip Oldroyd did not hear the end of the speech, for he closed the door, frowning with annoyance; and, mounting his pony, rode slowly back towards home.
“I shall not meet them again, I suppose,” he said to himself, as he neared the spot where he had seen Rolph and Judith on his way to the cottage; and, quite satisfied upon this point, he was riding softly on along the turf by the side of the road when, as he turned a corner, he came suddenly upon two men – the one ruddy and sun-browned, the other pale, close shaven, and sunken of eye.
“Hayle and Captain Rolph,” said the doctor between his teeth, “what does that mean?”
He rode on to pass close by the pair, both of whom looked up, the one to give him a haughty nod of the head, the other to touch his hat and say, – “How do, doctor?”
“The parson is said to know most about the affairs of people in a parish,” thought Oldroyd; “but that will not do. It’s a mistake. We are the knowing ones. Why, I could give quite a history of what is going on around us – if I liked. Your parson kens, as the north-country folk say, a’ aboot their morals, but we doctors are well up in the mental and bodily state too. Now then, who next? Bound to say, if I take the short cut through the firs and along the grass drives, I shall meet the old major toadstool hunting, and possibly Miss Day with him.”
Oldroyd’s ideas ran upon someone else; but he put the thoughts aside, and went on very moodily for a few minutes before his thoughts reverted to their former channel.
“Safe to meet them,” he muttered, with a bitter laugh. “Well, the captain is otherwise engaged to-day. The young lady with the gentleman as I came, and papa and the gentleman as I return. Well – go on Peter – I have enough to do with my own professional affairs, and giving advice gratis on moral matters is not in my department. No mention of them in the pharmacopoeia.”
Peter responded to his rider’s adjuration to go on in his customary way – to wit, he raised his head and whisked his tail, and went on, but without the slightest increase of speed. Oldroyd turned him out of the lane, through one of the game preserves, and he rode thoughtfully on for a couple of miles, with the peculiar smell of the bracken pervading the air as Peter crushed the stems beneath his hoofs. At times, as he rode through some opening where the sun beat down heavily, there was the pungent, lemony, resinous odour of the pines wafted to his nostrils, and once it was so strong that the doctor pulled up to inhale it.
“What a lunatic I was,” he thought, “to come and settle down in a place like this. Nature wants no doctors here; she does all the work herself – except the accidents,” he added laughingly. “Poor old Hayle yonder; I don’t think she would have made so good a job of him.”
He rode on again through the hot afternoon sunshine, going more and more out of his way; but he did not see the major with his creel, neither did the lady attendant upon some of his walks make his sore heart begin beating.
He had just come to the conclusion that he had ridden all this way round for nothing, when, as he wound round a mossy carpeted drive, he saw in the distance, framed in with green against a background of sky, a couple of figures, of which one, a lady, was holding out something to the other, a gipsy-looking fellow, which he took and thrust into his pocket, becoming conscious at the same moment of the doctor’s approach.
“Looks like my young poaching friend, Caleb Kent,” thought Oldroyd, as the man touched his cap obsequiously and plunged at once in through the thick undergrowth and was gone, while the lady drew herself up and came toward him.
Oldroyd’s acquaintanceship was of the most distant kind, and he merely raised his hat as he passed, noting that the face, which looked haughtily in his, was flushed and hot as his bow was returned.
“Why, that young scoundrel has been begging. Met her alone out here in this wood,” thought Oldroyd, when he had ridden on for a few yards; and, on the impulse of the moment, he dragged the unwilling pony’s head round, and, to the little animal’s astonishment, struck his heels into its ribs and forced it to canter after the lady they had passed.
She did not hear the approach for a few minutes, but was walking on hurriedly with her head bent down, till, the soft beat of the pony’s hoofs close behind rousing her, she turned suddenly a wild and startled face.
“I beg your pardon – Miss Emlin of The Warren, I believe?” said Oldroyd, raising his hat again.
There was a distant bow.
“You will excuse my interference,” he continued; “but these woods are lonely, and I could not help seeing that man had accosted you.”
Marjorie’s face was like wax now in its pallor.
“I thought so,” said Oldroyd to himself. Then aloud, – “He was begging, and frightened you?”
“The man asked me for money, and I gave him some. No; he did not frighten me.”
A flush now came in the girl’s face, and she said eagerly, —
“Did you pass a gentleman – my cousin, Captain Rolph – in the woods?”
“Yes; about a couple of miles away. I beg pardon for my interference,” there was an exchange of bows; and each passed on.
“What a fool I am!” muttered Oldroyd. “Like a man. Jumps at the chance of playing the knight-errant. Only begged a copper or two of her; a loafing scoundrel. Phew!” he whistled, “my cousin! I’m afraid that my cousin is going to be pulled up sharp; and quite right too. Looks like a piece of jealousy there. And the fellow’s engaged. Well, it’s not my business. Go on, Peter, old man.”
Peter wagged his tail, but still there was no increase of speed; for, if ponies can think, Peter was cogitating on the fact that if he made haste home there would be time for him to go with Sinkins, the carpenter, to fetch a piece of oak from the wood; and he felt that he had done enough for one day.
Volume Three – Chapter Five.
Perturbations
Had Oldroyd been a little sooner, he would have formed a different opinion about Caleb Kent and his appealing to Marjorie for alms.
For that day, Marjorie had come down dressed for a walk – a saunter, to find a few botanical specimens, she told Mrs Rolph, who smiled and was quite content, so long as her niece settled down and made no trouble of the loss of her lover.
Marjorie did saunter as long as she was in sight, and then went off through the fir woods rapidly, her eyes losing their soft, spaniel-like, far-away look which she so often turned upon Rolph, and growing fierce and determined as she stepped out, full of the object she had in view.
For she had good reason to believe that Rolph had gone in the direction she was taking, and the desire was strong within her to come upon him suddenly, and at a time when she felt she would succeed in getting the whip-hand of him, and holding him at her mercy.
She had been walking nearly an hour fairly fast; but now, as if guided by instinct, she turned into a green, mossy path, one of the many cut among the stubbs for the sportsmen’s benefit, whether hunting or shooting their purpose was the same, and advancing now more cautiously she was looking sharply from side to side when the hazels were suddenly parted, and, with his white teeth glistening in the sunshine, and his dark eyes flashing, there stood Caleb Kent not two yards away; then not one, as he caught her wrist in his hot, brown hands, and, with a laugh, placed his face close to hers.
“You’ve been a long time coming,” he said, “but you promised, and I’ve come.”
For a few moments Marjorie stood gazing wildly at the man before her, with her brain reeling, and a strange sickening sensation attacking her, which rendered her speechless. Her lips moved, but no sound came, while the words which had passed between them thundered in her ears like the echoes of all that had been said.
Then a re-action took place, and, drawing herself up, she said quietly, —
“Well, what do you want – money?”
“No; I can get money for myself,” he said, with a laugh. “I’ve come back to you.”
She shrank from him now with a look of disgust, and shivered as she thought of the past, but recovering herself she turned upon him.
“How dare you!” she cried, with a look intended to keep him at bay.
Caleb laughed.
“Well, you are a strange girl,” he said; “hot one day, cold the next. But I don’t care; say what you like, dear.”
Marjorie started as if she had been stung at this last word, for, more than anything which had passed, it made her feel how she had fallen.
“You want to play with me and hold me off; and you are going to say you didn’t mean it.”
With an action quick as that of some wild creature, he caught her wrist again, and looked at her mockingly, but with a flashing in his eyes which made her shiver and glance quickly round.
“No,” he said, with a laugh; “no one can see. But, look here,” he whispered earnestly, “I’ve been thinking about you ever since. You don’t care for them here, and their money and fine clothes. Come away along with me – it’ll be free like – right away from everyone who knows you, and I’ll be real good to you, dear, ’pon my soul I will.”
“Loose my wrist! How dare you!” cried Marjorie; and in her alarm she wondered now that she could have been so mad with one whom she thought she could sway with a look, but who was beginning to sway her.
“How dare I? because you like me to hold you,” he whispered. “Do you think I’m a fool? Look here; you used to love him, but you hate him now, and you love me. Well, I used to love Hayle’s girl; I was mad after her, but since I’ve seen you I don’t care a straw for her, not even if I never see her again.”
“Will you loose my wrist?” cried Marjorie, in a low, angry voice.
“No – not till I like.”
“Am I to call for assistance and have you punished, sir?”
“If you like,” he said mockingly. “There, that will do. What’s the good of all this nonsense? Don’t play with me. I say you’re a lady – a beautiful lady – and I never saw a woman I liked half so well. Look here; come along with me. I’ll be like your dog, and do everything you ask me. I’ll kill him if you tell me, and Judith Hayle, too. There, you wouldn’t find one of your sort ready like that.”
Frantic with dread, Marjorie looked wildly round as she strove to free her wrist.
“Why, what a struggling little thing you are,” he whispered. “Can’t you see that I like you, and wouldn’t hurt you for the world? What’s the good of holding off like this? No one can see you; there isn’t anybody within a couple of miles of where we are, and you promised me another kiss.”
“Let me go,” cried Marjorie hoarsely. “I did not mean it. I was half wild when I said that to you. Look here; take my watch and my rings, and I have some money here. I did not mean all that. Let go or I will call for help.”
“Well,” he said coolly, “call for help. I’m not afraid; you are, and you won’t call – I know better than that. Look here, you know what you said.”
She looked sharply round and shuddered.
“Yes,” she said huskily, “but I was mad and foolish then. It was in an angry fit. I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t you?” he said, looking at her with a cunning smile. “How easily you people can lie. You did mean it, and you made me a promise, and you’re going to keep it.”
“No, no,” she cried wildly.
“You are,” he said, “and I’m going to be paid. I’m only waiting for my chance.”
“I tell you no,” cried Marjorie. “I did not mean it.”
“You meant it then, and you mean it now, and I’m going to keep my word when I can. I’m not a fool. Do you think I don’t know why it all is? Not so blind as all that, my dear. It’s plucky of you, and I like you the better for it, and some day you’ll tell me how glad you are that – pst! someone coming,” he whispered, completely altering his manner and tone bowing obsequiously, and whining out an appeal to the dear kind lady to bestow a trifle on a poor young man out of work.
That night Marjorie lay awake thinking, half-repentant, half-glad; the latter feeling increasing till there was a glow of triumph in her eyes as she seemed to be gazing down upon Glynne, cast off by her cousin, her enemy and rival no longer, but an unhappy despairing object humbled at her feet.
Volume Three – Chapter Six.
Facing the Unknown
The time was drawing nigh, and Sir John and his brother were sitting over their wine, when the former began upon matters connected with the wedding. Rolph had only left them that day, and was to return the next morning to meet them at the church, in company with a brother officer, ready to act as his best man. Then the wedding over, the happy pair were to start for the Continent; and Brackley would be left to the brothers, both of whom looked blank and dispirited as they asked themselves what they were to do when the light of the place had gone.
And that was how the conversation first began. Sir John sighing, and saying that he should miss Glynne very much indeed.
“Of course, I give lots of attention to my pigs and sheep, and the rest of them,” he said dolefully; “but Brackley won’t be the same, Jem, old fellow, when she’s gone. I shall miss her dreadfully.”
“Yes,” said the major, raising his claret to his lips, and setting the glass down again untouched, “we shall miss her dreadfully.”
Then, after a long conversation, Sir John had touched upon the subject of his brother’s treatment of the bridegroom, and his conduct at the wedding.
They sat sipping their claret for some time, Sir John being very silent; and at last the long pause was followed by the major saying, —
“Well, don’t let’s leave our darling. I suppose I may say ‘our darling,’ Jack?”
“My dear brother!” exclaimed Sir John, grasping his hand.
“I say then, don’t let’s leave our darling alone any longer. We shall have plenty of time to sip our wine of nights when we are alone, Jack. Let’s go and let her pour out tea for us for what will pretty well be the last time.”
“Hah! yes!” said Sir John, rising slowly, “for pretty well the last time, Jem, and – and – ”
Sir John stopped short, for his voice broke, and the nerves in his fine florid face quivered.
The major laid one hand upon his brother’s shoulder in good old schoolboy fashion, caught his right hand in his own, and remained gripping it warmly – a strong, firm, sympathetic grip, full of brotherly feeling; but he spoke no word.
Sir John was the first to break the silence. “Thank you, Jem,” he said, “thank you, Jem. It’s very weak and childish of me at my time of life, but it touches me home; it touches me the harder, too, that she is my only child; and – and – and, Jem, my lad, don’t jump upon me – I must own it to you now, and I will – I feel that I am making a great mistake.”
“Thank God!” cried the major fervently.
“Jem!”
“I say, thank God,” cried the major, “that you see the truth at last, Jack, before it is too late.”
“No, no, Jem,” said Sir John sadly; “I have not seen it before it is too late. It is too late. We cannot alter it now. I am in honour bound. I cannot interfere.”
“Hang honour!” cried the major excitedly. “I’d give up all the honour in the world sooner than that girl’s life should be blighted. Jack, Jack, my dear brother, we are old men now. We’ve had our fling of life. Let’s think of our darling’s happiness, and not of what the world thinks of us.”
“Too late, Jem! too late!” said Sir John.
“I tell you it is not too late, Jack. Hang it man, I’ll do anything. I’ll challenge and shoot this confounded Rolph sooner than he shall have her.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Jem – don’t talk nonsense. I’ve sounded Glynne well, and it is too late.”
“What! Do you mean to tell me that she would insist upon having him if you forbade it?” cried the major.
“She thinks that she is bound to him, and that it is impossible to retract, even if she wished.”
“But doesn’t she wish to run back from this wretched business?”
“No, she does not wish to run back from her promise.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried the major, over whose white forehead the veins stood up like a pink network.
“It is true all the same,” said Sir John sadly. “If she had but expressed the slightest wish, I’d have seen Rolph, even at this eleventh hour, and, as he would have called it, the match should be off.”
