This Man's Wife
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“I don’t often get a tea like this, Miss Heathery,” said Thickens, who was busy with his red and yellow bandanna handkerchief spread over his drab lap.
“I hope you are enjoying it,” she said sweetly.
“Never enjoyed one more. Another cup, if you please, and I’ll take a little more of that ham.”
It was not a little that he took, and that qualifying adjective is of no value in describing the toast and Sally Lunns that he ate solidly and seriously, as if it were his duty to do justice to the meal.
And all the while poor Miss Heathery was only playing with her tea-cup and saucer. The only food of which she could partake was mental, and as she sat there dispensing her dainties and blushing with pleasure, she kept on thinking in a flutter of delight that all the neighbours would know Mr Thickens was taking tea with her, and be talking about this wicked, daring escapade on the part of a single lady.
He had not smiled, but he had seemed to be so contented, so happy, and he had asked her whether she worked that framed sampler on the wall, and the black cat with gold-thread eyes, and the embroidered cushion.
He had asked her if she liked poetry, and how long one of those rice-paper flowers took her to paint. He had admired, too, her poonah painting, and had at last sat back in his chair with one drab leg crossed over the other, and looking delightfully at home.
Still he didn’t seem disposed to come to the point, and in the depth and subtlety of her cunning, Miss Heathery thought she would help him by leading the conversation towards matrimony.
“Dr and Mrs Luttrell seem to age very much,” she said softly.
“Ah! they do,” said Thickens tightening his lips and making a furrow across the lower part of his face. “Yes: trouble, ma’am, trouble.”
“But they are a sweet couple, Mr Thickens.”
“Models, madam, models,” said the visitor, who became very thoughtful, and made a noise that sounded like “Soop!” as there was a pause, during which Mr Thickens took some tea.
“Have you seen Sir Gordon lately?” said Miss Heathery at last.
“No, madam. Back soon, though, I hope.”
“Ah!” sighed Miss Heathery, “do you think he will ever – ahem! marry now?”
“Never, ma’am,” said Thickens emphatically. “Too old.”
“Oh, no, Mr Thickens.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Heathery.”
There was another pause.
“How beautiful Mrs Hallam grows! So pale, and sweet, and grave. She looks to me always, Mr Thickens, like some lovely lily. Dear Millicent, it seems only yesterday that she was married.”
Thickens started and moved uneasily, sending a pang that must have had a jealous birth through Miss Heathery’s breast.
“Seven years ago, Mr Thickens.”
“Six years, eleven months, two weeks, ma’am.”
“Ah, how exact you are, Mr Thickens!”
“Obliged to be, ma’am. Interest to calculate.”
“But she looks thin, and not so happy as I could wish.”
“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am,” said Thickens, paradoxically.
Again there was an uneasy change, for Mr Thickens’s brow was puckered, and a couple of ridgy wrinkles ran across the top of his head.
“And they make such a handsome pair.”
Thickens nodded and frowned, but became placid the next moment as his hostess said softly:
“That sweet child!”
“Hah! Yes! Bless her! – Hah! Yes! Bless her! – Hah! Yes! Bless her!”
Miss Heathery stared, for her guest fired these ejaculations and benedictions at intervals in a quick, eager way, smiling the while, and with his eyes brightening.
She stared more the next minute, and trembled as she heard her visitor’s next utterance, and thought of a visit of his seven years ago when she was out, and which he had explained by saying that he had come to ask her if she would like a pair of gold-fish, that was all.
For all at once Mr Thickens exclaimed with his eyes glittering:
“If I had married I should have liked to have had a little girl like that.”
There was a terrible pause here, terrible to only one though: and then, in a hesitating voice, Miss Heathery went on, with that word “marriage” buzzing in her ears, and making her feel giddy.
“Do you – do you think it’s true, Mr Thickens?”
“What, that I never married?” he said sharply.
“No, no; oh, dear me, no!” cried Miss Heathery; “I mean that poor Mrs Hallam is terribly troubled about money matters, and that they are very much in debt?”
“Don’t know, ma’am; can’t say, ma’am; not my business, ma’am.”
“But they say the doctor is terribly pinched for money too.”
“Very likely, ma’am. Every one is sometimes.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Heathery.
“Very, ma’am. No: nothing more, thank you. Get these things taken away, I want to talk to you.”
As the repast was cleared away, Miss Heathery felt that it was coming now, and as she grew more flushed, her head with its curls and great tortoise-shell comb trembled like a flower on its stalk. She got out her work, growing more and more agitated, but noticing that Thickens grew more cold and self-possessed.
“The way of a great man,” she thought to herself as she felt that she had led up to what was coming, and that she had never before been so wicked and daring in the whole course of her life.
“It was the violets,” she said to herself; and then she started, trembled more than ever, and felt quite faint, for James Thickens drew his chair a little nearer, spread his handkerchief carefully across his drab legs, and said suddenly:
“Now then, let’s to business.”
Business? Well yes, it was the great business of life, thought Miss Heathery, as she held her hands to her heart, ready to pour out the long pent-up sweetness with which it was charged.
“Look here, Miss Heathery,” he went on, “I always liked you.”
“Oh! Mr Thickens,” she sighed, but she could not “look here” at the visitor, who was playing dumb tunes upon the red and lavender check table-cover, as if it were a harpsichord.
“I’ve always thought you were an extremely good little woman.”
“At last,” said Miss Heathery to herself.
“You’ve got a nice little bit of money in our bank, and also the deeds of this house.”
“Don’t – don’t talk about money, Mr Thickens, please.”
“Must,” he said abruptly. “I’m a money man. Now look here, you live on your little income we have in the bank.”
“Yes, Mr Thickens,” sighed the lady.
“Ah! yes, of course. Then look here. Dinham’s two houses are for sale next week.”
“Yes; I saw the bill,” she sighed.
“Let me buy them for you.”
“Buy them? They would cost too much, Mr Thickens.”
“Not they. You’ve got nearly enough, and the rest could stay on. They always let; dare say you could keep on the present tenants.”
“But – ”
That “but” meant that she would not have those excuses for going to the bank.
“You’ll get good interest for your money then, ma’am, and you get little now.”
“But, Mr Thickens – ”
“I wish you to do it, ma’am, and I hope that you will.”
“Oh! if you wish it, Mr Thickens, of course I will,” she said eagerly.
“That’s right; I do wish it. May I buy them for you?”
“Oh, certainly, Mr Thickens.”
“All right, ma’am, then I will. Now I must get home and feed my fishes. Good evening.”
He caught up his hat, shook hands, and was gone before his hostess had recovered from her surprise and chagrin.
“But never mind,” she said, rubbing her hands and making two rings click.
The contact of those two rings made her gaze down and then take and fondle one particular finger, while, in spite of the abruptness of her visitor, she gazed down dreamily at that finger, and sighed as she sank into a reverie full of golden dreams.
“So odd and peculiar,” she sighed; “but so different to any one else I ever knew; and, ah me! how shocking it all is: so many people must have seen him come.”
Volume Two – Chapter Four.
Dr Luttrell’s Troubles
Dr Luttrell had taken a rake, and gone down the garden, according to his custom, and, as soon as he had left the house, Mrs Luttrell went to the window and watched him; after which, with a sorrowful face, she walked back into the drawing-room, to sit down and weep silently for a few minutes.
“It breaks my heart to see her poor sad face, and it’s breaking his, though he’s always laughing it off, and telling me it’s all my nonsense. Oh, dear me! oh, dear me! How is it all to end?”
She sat rocking herself to and fro for a few minutes, and then jumped up hastily.
“It’s dreadful, that it is!” she sighed; “but I can’t stop here alone. Yes! I thought so!” she cried, as she went to the window, where she could catch sight of the doctor, rake in hand, but not using it, according to his wont, for he was resting upon it, and thinking deeply.
Mrs Luttrell snatched at a great grey ball of worsted and her needles, and went down the garden, making the doctor start as she reached his side.
“Eh? What is it?” he exclaimed. “Anything wrong at the Manor?”
“Wrong! what nonsense, dear!” said the old lady cheerily. “I’m sure, Joseph, you ought to take some medicine. You grow quite nervous!”
“What made you come, then?” he cried, beginning to use his rake busily.
“Why, I thought I’d come and chat while you worked, and – Joseph, my dear, don’t – don’t look like that!”
“It’s of no use, old girl,” said the doctor with a sigh; “we may just as well look it boldly in the face. I’m sick of all this make-believe.”
“And so am I, dear. Let us be open.”
“Ah, well! I will. Who is a man to be open to if not to his old wife?”
“There!” sobbed Mrs Luttrell, making a brave effort over herself, and speaking cheerfully. “I’m ready to face everything now.”
“Even poverty, my dear?”
“Even poverty! What does it matter to us? Is it so very bad, dear?”
“It could not be worse. We must give up this house, and sell everything.”
“But Hallam?”
“Is a scoundrel! – no, no! I won’t say that of my child’s husband. But I cannot get a shilling of him; and when I saw him yesterday, and threatened to go to Sir Gordon – ”
“Well, dear?”
“He told me to go if I dared.”
“And did you go?”
“Did I go, mother? Did I go? – with poor Milly’s white face before my eyes, to denounce her husband as a cheat and a rogue! He has had every penny I possessed for his speculations, and they seem all to have failed.”
“But you shouldn’t have let him have it, dear!”
“Not let him have it, wife! How could I refuse my own son-in-law? Well, there, our savings are gone, and we must eat humble pie for the future. I have not much practice now, and I don’t think my few patients will leave me because I live in a cottage.”
“Do you think if I went and spoke to Robert it would do any good?”
“It would make our poor darling miserable. She would be sure to know. As it is, she believes her husband to be one of the best of men. Am I, her father, to be the one who destroys that faith? Hush, here is some one coming!”
For there was a quick, heavy step upon the gravel walk, and Christie Bayle appeared.
“I thought I should find you,” he said, shaking hands warmly. “Well, doctor, how’s the garden? Why, Mrs Luttrell, what black currants! There! you may call me exacting, but tithe, ma’am, tithe – I put in my claim at once for two pots of black currant jam. Those you gave me last year were invaluable.”
Mrs Luttrell held his hand still, and laughed gently.
“Little bits of flattery for a very foolish old woman, my dear.”
“Flattery! when I had such sore throats I could hardly speak, and yet had to preach! Not much flattery, eh, doctor?”
“Flattery! No, no,” said the doctor, dreamily.
He glanced at Mrs Luttrell, then at Bayle, who went on chatting pleasantly about the garden, and then checked him suddenly.
“No one can hear us, Bayle. We want to talk to you – my wife and I.”
“Certainly,” said Bayle; and his tone and manner changed. “Is it anything I can do for you?”
“Wait a moment – let me think,” said the doctor sadly. “Here, let’s go and sit down under the yew hedge.”
Bayle drew Mrs Luttrell’s hand through his arm, and patted it gently, as she looked up tenderly in his face, a tenderness mingled with pride, as if she had part and parcel in the sturdy, manly Englishman who led her to the pleasant old rustic seat in a nook of the great, green, closely-clipped wall, with its glorious prospect away over the fair country side.
“I do love this old spot!” said Bayle, enthusiastically, for a glance at the doctor showed that he was nervous and hesitating, and he thought it well to give him time. “Mrs Luttrell, it is one of my sins that I cannot master envy. I always long for this old place and garden.”
“Bayle!” cried the doctor, laying his hand upon the curate’s knee, and with his former hesitancy chased away by an eager look, “are you in earnest?”
“In earnest, my dear sir? What about?”
“About – about the old place – the garden.”
“Earnest! – yes. But I am going to fight it down,” cried Bayle, laughing.
“Don’t laugh, man. I am serious – things are serious with me.”
“I was afraid so; but I dared not ask you. Come, come, Mrs Luttrell,” he continued gently, “don’t take it to heart. Troubles come to us all, and when they do there is their pleasant side, for then we learn the value of our friends, and I hope I am one.”
“Friend, my dear!” said Mrs Luttrell, weeping gently, “I’m sure you have always seemed to me like a soil. Do: pray do, Joseph, tell him all.”
“Be patient, wife, and I will – all that I can.”
The doctor paused and cleared his throat, while Mrs Luttrell sat with her hand in the curate’s.
“You have set me thinking,” said the doctor at last; “and what you said is like a ray of sunshine in my trouble.”
“He’s always saying things that are like rays of sunshine to us in our trouble, Joseph,” said Mrs Luttrell, looking up through her tears at the earnest countenance at her side.
“Bayle, I shall have to lose the old place – the wife’s old home, of which she is so proud – and my old garden. It’s a bitter blow at my time of life, but it must come.”
“I was afraid there was something very wrong,” said Bayle; “but suppose we look the difficulties in the face. I’m a bit of a lawyer, you know, my dear doctor. Let’s see what can be done. I want to be delicate in my offer, but I must be blunt. I am not a poor man, my wants are very simple, and I spend so little – let me clear this difficulty away. There, we will not bother Mrs Luttrell about money matters. Consider it settled.”
“No,” said the doctor firmly, “that will not do. I appreciate it all, my dear boy, truly; but there is only one way out of this difficulty – the old place must be sold.”
“Oh, Joseph, Joseph!” sighed Mrs Luttrell, and the tears fell fast.
“It must be, wife,” said the doctor firmly. “Bayle, after what you said, will you buy the old home? I could bear it better if it fell into your hands.”
“Are you sure it must be sold?”
“There is no other way out of the difficulty, Bayle. Will you buy it?”
“If you tell me that there is certainly no other way out of the difficulty, and that it is your wish and Mrs Luttrell’s, I will buy the place.”
“Just as it stands – furniture – everything?”
“Just as it stands – furniture – everything.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the doctor with a sigh of relief. “Thank God, Bayle!” he cried, shaking the curate’s hand energetically. “I have not felt so much at rest for months. Now I want, you to tell me a little about the town – about the people. What do they say?”
“Say?”
“Yes: say about us – about Hallam – about Millicent, about our darling?”
“My dear doctor, I shall have to go and fetch old Gemp. He will point at game, and tell you more in half-an-hour than I shall be able to tell you in a year. Had we not better change the conversation? – here is Mrs Hallam with Julia.”
As he spoke the garden gate clicked, and Millicent came into sight, with her child, the one grave and sad, the other all bright-eyed eagerness and excitement.
“There they are, mamma – in the yew seat!” And the child raced across the lawn, bounded over a flowerbed, and leaped upon the doctor’s knee.
“Dear old grandpa!” she cried, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him effusively, but only to leap down and climb on Mrs Luttrell’s lap, clasping her neck, and laying her charming little face against the old lady’s cheek. “Dear, sweet old grandma!” she cried.
Then, in all the excitement of her young life, she was down again to seize Bayle’s hand.
“Come and get some fruit and flowers. We may, mayn’t we, grandpa?”
“I’m sure we may,” said Bayle, laughing, “only I must go.”
“Oh!” cried the child pouting, “don’t go, Mr Bayle! I do like being in the garden with you so very, very much!”
Mrs Hallam turned her sweet, grave face to him.
“Can you give her a few minutes? Julie will be so disappointed.”
“There,” cried Bayle merrily, “you see, doctor, what a little tyrant she grows! She makes every one her slave!”
“I don’t!” said the child, pouting. “Mamma always says a run in the garden does me so much good, and it will do Mr Bayle good too. Thibs says he works too hard.”
“Come along, then,” he cried laughing; and the man seemed transformed, running off with the child to get a basket, while Millicent gazed after them, her countenance looking brighter, and the old people seemed to have forgotten their troubles, as they gazed smilingly after the pair.
“Bless her!” said Mrs Luttrell, swaying herself softly to and fro, and passing her hands along her knees.
“Yes, that’s the way, Milly. Give her plenty of fresh air, and laugh at me and my tribe.”
Then quite an eager conversation ensued, Mrs Hallam brightening up; and on both sides every allusion to trouble was, by a pious kind of deception, kept out of sight, Millicent Hallam being in the fond belief that her parents did not even suspect that she was not thoroughly happy, while they were right in thinking that their child was ignorant of the straits to which they had been brought.
“Why, we are quite gay this morning!” cried Mrs Luttrell; “or, no: perhaps he comes as a patient, he looks so serious. Ah, Sir Gordon, it is quite an age since you were here?”
“Yes, madam; I’m growing old and gouty, and – your servant, Mrs Hallam,” he said, raising his hat. “Doctor, I wish I had your health. Ah, how peaceful and pleasant this garden looks! They told me – old Gemp told me – that I should find Bayle here. I called at his lodgings – bless my soul! how can a man with his income live in such a simple way! The woman said he was out visiting, and that old scoundrel said he was here. Egad! I believe the fellow lies in wait to hear everything. Eh? Ah, I’m right, I see!”
Just then there was a silvery burst of childish laughter, followed by a deep voice shouting, “Stop thief! stop thief!” Then there was a scampering of feet, and Julia came racing along, with her dark curls flying, and Christie Bayle in full pursuit, right up to the group by the yew hedge.
“She ran off with the basket!” cried Bayle. “Did you ever see – Ah, Sir Gordon!” he cried, holding out a currant-stained hand.
“Humph!” cried Sir Gordon grimly, raising his glass to his eye, and looking at the big, brown, fruit-stained fingers; “mighty clerical, ’pon my honour, sir! Who do you think is coming to listen to a parson on Sundays who spends his weeks racing about gardens after little girls? No, I’m not going to spoil my gloves; they’re new.”
“I – I don’t think you ought to speak to – to Mr Bayle like that, Sir Gordon!” cried Mrs Luttrell, flushing and ruffling up like a hen. “If you only knew him as we do – ”
“Oh, hush, mamma dear!” said Mrs Hallam, smiling tenderly, and laying her hand upon her mother’s arm.
“Yes, my dear; but I cannot sit still and – ”
“Know him, ma’am!” said Sir Gordon sharply. “Oh, I know him by heart; read him through and through! He was never meant for a parson; he’s too rough!”
“Really, Sir Gordon, I – ”
“Don’t defend me, Mrs Luttrell,” said Bayle merrily. “Sir Gordon doesn’t like me, and he makes this excuse for not coming to hear me preach.”
“Well, little dark eyes!” cried Sir Gordon, taking Julia’s hand, and leading her to the seat. “Ah, that’s better! I do get tired so soon, doctor. Well, little dark eyes!” he continued, after seating himself, and drawing the child between his knees, after which he drew a clean, highly-scented, cambric handkerchief from his breast pocket, and leaned forward. “Open your mouth, little one,” he said.
Julia obeyed, parting her scarlet lips.
“Now put out your tongue.”
“Is grandpa teaching you to be a doctor?” said the child innocently.
“No; but I wish he would, my dear,” said Sir Gordon, “so that I could doctor one patient – myself. Out with your tongue.”
The child obeyed, and the baronet gravely moistened his handkerchief thereon, and, taking the soft little chin in one gloved hand, carefully removed a tiny purple fruit-stain.
“That’s better. Now you are fit to kiss.” He bent down, and kissed the child slowly. “Don’t like me much, do you, Julia?”
“I don’t know,” said the child, looking up at him with her large serious eyes. “Sometimes I do, when you don’t talk crossly to me; but sometimes I don’t. I don’t like you half so well as I do Mr Bayle.”
“But he’s always setting you hard lessons, and puzzling your brains, isn’t he?”
“No,” said the child, shaking her head. “Oh, no! we have such fun over my lessons every morning! But I do like you too – a little.”
“Come, that’s a comfort!” said Sir Gordon, rising again. “There, I must go. I want to carry off Mr Bayle – on business.”
Mrs Hallam glanced sharply from one to the other, and then, to conceal her agitation, bent down over her child, and began to smooth her tangled curls.
Volume Two – Chapter Five.
Sir Gordon Bourne Asks Questions
“I want a few words with you, Bayle,” said Sir Gordon, as the pair walked back towards the town.
“Shall we talk here, or will you come to my rooms?” and he indicated Mrs Pinet’s house, to which he had moved when Hallam married.
“Your rooms! No, man; I never feel as if I can breathe in your stuffy lodgings. How can you exist in them?”
“I do, and very happily,” said Bayle, laughing. “Shall we go to your private room at the bank?”
“Bless my soul! no, man!” cried Sir Gordon hastily. “The very last place. Let’s get out in the fields, and talk there. More room, and no tattling, inquisitive people about. No Gemps.”
“Very good,” said Bayle, wondering, and very anxious at heart, for he knew the baronet’s proclivities.
They turned off on to one of the footpaths, chatting upon indifferent matters, till all at once Sir Gordon exclaimed:
“’Pon my honour, I don’t think I like you, Bayle.”
“I’m very sorry, Sir Gordon, because I really do like you. I’ve always found you a true gentleman at heart, and – ”
“Stuff, sir! Silence, sir! Egad, sir, will you hold your tongue? Talking such nonsense to a confirmed valetudinarian with a soured life, and – pish! I don’t want to talk about myself. I was going to say that I did not like you.”
“You did say so,” replied the curate, smiling.
“Ah! well, it’s the truth. Why do you stop here?”
“To annoy you, perhaps,” said Bayle laughing. “Well, no: I like my people, and I’m vain enough to think I am able to do a little good.”
“You do, Bayle, you do,” said Sir Gordon, taking his arm and leaning upon him in a confidential way. “You’re a good fellow, Bayle; and Castor here would miss you horribly, if you left.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“It is not nonsense, sir. Why, you do more good among the people in one year than I have done in all my life.”
“Well, I think I have amerced you pretty well lately for my poor, Sir Gordon.”
“Yes, man, but it was your doing. I shouldn’t have given a shilling. But look here, I was going to say, why is it that I come to you, and make such a confidant of you?”
“Do you wish to confide something to me now?”
“Yes, of course; one can’t go to one’s solicitor, and I’ve no friends. Plenty of club acquaintances: but no friends. There, don’t shake your head like that, man. Well, only a few. By-the-way, charming little girl that.”
“What, little Julie?” cried Bayle, with his cheeks flushing with pleasure.
“Yes; and your prime favourite, I see. I don’t like her, though. Too much of her father.”