At last their long watchings, their tender care, directed by one of the most famous men in London — who was summoned to Wimperfield at Mr. Fosbroke’s suggestion within a week of Dr. Mallison’s visit — and attended twice or thrice a day by the clever apothecary, were rewarded by the assurance that the time of immediate danger was over, and that now a slow and gradual recovery might fairly be anticipated. It was only then that Ida could bring herself to face Brian again, and even then she met him with an icy look, as if the life within her were frozen by grief and care, and those rigid lips of hers could never again melt into smiles.
Brian had been leading a fitful and wandering life during the boy’s illness, watched and waited upon by Towler, the man from London, with whom he quarrelled twenty times a day, and who needed his long experience of the “ways” of alcoholic victims to enable him to endure the fitfulness and freakishness of his present charge.
Warned by Dr. Mallison that he must spend as much of his life in the open air as possible, Brian had taken to going in and out of the house fifty times a day, now wandering for five or ten minutes in the garden, anon rambling as far as the edge of the park, then running into the stable yard, and ordering a horse to be saddled instantly, but never mounting the horse. After seeing the animal led up and down the yard once or twice, he would always find some excuse for not riding; the fact being that he had no longer courage enough to get into the saddle. His riding days were over. Even the stable mastiff, an old favourite with Brian, gave him a painful shock when the great tawny brute leapt out of his kennel, straining at his chain, and baying deep-mouthed thunder by way of friendly greeting.
Towler had a hard time of it, following his charge here and there, waiting upon him, bearing his abuse; but Towler had a peculiar gift, a faculty for getting on with patients of this kind. He knew how to dodge, and follow, and circumvent them; how to take liberties with them, and scold them, without too deeply wounding their amour-propre; how to humour and manage them; and although Mr. Wendover quarrelled with his attendant fifty times a day, he yet liked the man, and tolerated his presence; and had already come to lean upon him, and to be angry when Towler absented himself.
‘Well,’ said Brian, looking up as Ida entered his room on that happy morning on which she had been told that her brother was out of danger —‘the boy is better, I hear?’
These things are quickly known in a household, when there has been general anxiety about the issue of an illness.
‘Yes, he is better. By God’s grace, he will live; but his life has trembled in the balance. Brian, it would have been your fault if he had died.’
‘Would it? Yes, I suppose indirectly I should have been the cause. I was a fool to take him out that morning; but,’ shrugging his shoulders, ‘I wanted a ramble, and I wanted company. Who could tell there would be such a diabolical storm, or that we should lose our way? Thank God he is out of danger. Poor little beggar! Did you think I wanted to put him out of the way?’ he asked, suddenly, looking at her with a keen flash of interrogation.
‘To think that would be to think you a murderer,’ she answered, coldly. ‘I have thought that you had little affection for him or for me when you exposed him to that danger; and then I schooled myself to think better of you — to remember that, perhaps, on that day you were hardly responsible for your actions.’
‘In fact, that I was a lunatic,’ said Brian.
‘I would rather think you mad than wicked.’
‘Perhaps I am neither. Why have you put that man as a spy upon me?’
The discreet Towler had retired into the adjacent bedroom during this conversation.
‘He is not a spy. Dr. Mallison said you ought to have a servant specially to wait upon you, that in your sleepless nights you might not be left alone.’
‘No, they are a trial, those long nights. Towler is not a bad fellow, but he irritates me sometimes. Last night he let a black-muzzled gipsy brute hide behind my curtains, and then told me it was my “delusions.” Delusions! when I saw the fellow as plain as I see you now.’
Ida was silent. She had hoped that the patient had passed this stage, and was on the road to recovery of health and reason. She interrogated Towler by-and-by, and he assured her that Mr. Wendover had taken no stimulants since he had been attending upon him.
‘Are you sure he cannot get any without your knowledge?’ Ida asked. ‘Dr. Mallison told me that in this malady a patient is terribly artful — that he will contrive to evade the closest watchfulness, if it is any way possible to get drink.’
‘Ah, that’s true enough, ma’am,’ sighed the man; ‘there’s no getting to the bottom of their artfulness: but I’m an old hand, and I know all the ins and outs of the complaint. It isn’t possible for Mr. Wendover to get any drink in this house, and he never goes out of it without me. Every drop of wine and spirits is under lock and key, and all the servants are warned against giving him anything.’
Ida sighed, full of shame at the thought that her husband, the man whom it was her duty to honour and obey, should be degraded by such humiliating precautions; and yet there was no help for it. He had brought himself to this pass. This is the end of ambrosial nights, the feast of reason, the flow of soul, wit drowned in whisky, satire stimulated by brandy and soda.
Ida went back to her brother’s room. It was there her love, her fears, her cares were all concentrated. Duty might make her careful and thoughtful for her husband, but here love was paramount. To sit by his pillow, to talk to him, or read to him, or pray for him, to minister to him, jealous of the skilled nurse who had been hired to perform these offices — these things were her delight. Lady Palliser, worn out with watching and anxiety, had now broken down altogether, and had consented to take a long day’s rest; but Ida’s more energetic nature could do with much less rest — half an hour’s delicious sleep now and then, with her head on her darling’s pillow, was all-sufficient to restore her.
And so the blessed days of hope went on, and every morning and every afternoon Mr. Fosbroke’s report was more favourable. It was a tedious recovery from a cruel disease, happily shortened by at least two-thirds of its old-fashioned length by modern treatment; but all was going well, and the hearts of the watchers were at ease. The boy lay swathed in cotton wool, very helpless, very languid, fed and petted from morning till night, like a young bird brought up by hand: and Ida and her stepmother had to be patient and thankful.
Ida had often thought during the boy’s illness of the man who had found him, and brought him safely home to them on that anxious day; and she wished much to testify her gratitude to the misanthropic dweller in the gamekeeper’s cottage; but she hesitated as to her manner of approaching him. To go herself would be futile, when he had so obdurately shut his door against her. Then she had Vernon’s assurance that this Bohemian hated women. She might have sent a servant with a message; but she had reason to know, from Vernon’s description of the man, that he was altogether above the servant class, and would be likely to resent such a form of approach. She might have written to him; but her pride recoiled from that course, remembering his cavalier treatment of her. And so she let the days slip by, until Vernon began to recover strength and good spirits, and to inquire about his friend.
‘I want Jack to come and see me, and sit with me,’ said the boy; ‘he could come to tea couldn’t he, mother? You wouldn’t mind, would you?’
‘My dear, he is not a proper person for you to associate with,’ replied Lady Palliser. ‘You oughtn’t to bemean yourself by associating with your inferiors.’
‘Bemean fiddlesticks!’ cried Vernie; ‘I don’t believe there is such a word. Jack is the cleverest man I know — cleverer than Mr. Jardine, and that’s saying a great deal.’
Vainly did the widow endeavour to awaken her son’s mind to the great gulf which divides a baronet from a hawker — a gulf not to be bridged over by the genius of a Dalton or a Whewell — and to those nice distinctions which obtain between a casual out-of-door intercourse with a man of this class, and a deliberate invitation to tea.
‘When I’m well enough to go out I can go to him,’ answered Vernon, doggedly; ‘but now I’m ill he must come to me; and it’s very unkind of you not to let him come. Blow his station in life! If he was a duke I shouldn’t want him.’
‘I can’t think what you can want with this low person, when Ida and I are always doing everything to amuse you,’ moaned Lady Palliser.
‘Ida’s a darling, and you too, mother,’ said the boy, putting his thin little arms round his mother’s neck. He was now just able to move those poor arms, which had been so racked with pain a little while ago. ‘But I get tired of everything — Shakespeare, Dickens, even. It’s so long to stay in bed; and I think Jack would amuse me more than anyone, if you’d let him come.’
‘He shall come, darling. Is there anything I could refuse you?’ said the mother, eagerly, moved by the sight of tears in Vernon’s innocent blue eyes.
‘Ask him to come to tea this afternoon.’
‘Yes, love; I’ll go and see about it this minute.’
Lady Palliser went in quest of Ida, who was sitting in Brian’s study reading, while her husband wrote, or made believe to write, at a table in the window piled with books of reference, which he consulted every now and then, lolling back in his chair and reading listlessly — altogether a mere show and pretence of study, never likely to result in anything — a weary dawdling away of the long summer morning.
To Ida, Lady Palliser explained her difficulty. A note of some kind must be written to this Cheap Jack; and the little woman did not know how to word that note.
‘If I say, “Lady Palliser presents her compliments to Mr. Cheap Jack, and requests the pleasure of his company,” it seems like patting myself on a level with him, don’t you know. I wish you’d write for me, Ida.’
‘Willingly, dear mother; but I’m afraid the man won’t come. He is such a very rough diamond.’
‘Oh! but surely he will be gratified at an invitation to tea!’
‘I’m afraid not. But I’ll write at once. Anything to please Vernon.’ Ida wrote as follows:—
‘Sir Vernon Palliser, who is slowly recovering from a serious illness, will be very pleased if his friend Jack will spend an hour or two with him this afternoon. Any hour convenient to Jack will be agreeable to Sir Vernon, but he would much like Jack to drink tea with him between four and five. The other members of the family will not intrude upon the sick room while Jack is there.’
‘I think that will do,’ said Ida; and Lady Palliser carried off the note, wondering at her stepdaughter’s cleverness, yet inclined to fear that the hermit of Blackman’s Hanger might be offended at being addressed as Jack, tout court; and yet how could one deal ceremoniously with a man who acknowledged no surname, and was known to all the neighbourhood only as ‘Cheap Jack’?
Mr. Fosbroke came for his noontide visit just after this business of the letter, and found Ida and her stepmother both with the invalid. He was told what they had done.
‘Do you think he’ll come?’ Vernon asked, eagerly.
‘I should think he would. Sir Vernon,’ answered the doctor; ‘for I know he takes a keen interest in your recovery. All the time you were really bad he used to hang about the Park gate every day as I went out, and stopped me to ask how you were. And he asked after you, too, Mrs. Wendover — seemed to be afraid your anxiety about this little man would be too much for you.’
‘Remarkably polite of him,’ said Ida, laughing; ‘yet he treated me in the most bearish manner when I went to his cottage.’
‘If he is a bear, he is a bear with gentlemanly instincts,’ replied the doctor. ‘Nothing could be more respectful, more delicate, than his inquiries about you; and I could see by the expression of his eyes that he really felt for you. He has very fine eyes.’
‘One of the tokens of his gipsy blood, I suppose,’ said Ida.
‘Yes; I believe he is a gipsy. They are a keen-witted race.’
‘A gipsy! — and with so much plate as there is in this house!’ exclaimed Lady Palliser. ‘Oh, Vernie, you ought not to have asked me to ask him!’
‘Don’t be afraid, mother,’ said Ida; ‘he shall be sharply looked after, if he does come.’
‘Looked after, indeed! Why, you might give him the run of a silver mine. What does he care for your trumpery silver spoons?’ cried Vernon, contemptuously.
The invalid was doomed to disappointment. About two hours after Ida’s letter had been despatched, a small boy brought Cheap Jack’s reply, to the following effect:—‘Jack is very sorry he cannot drink tea with his little friend —’
‘Little friend, indeed! What vulgar familiarity!’ exclaimed Lady Palliser.
‘But he belongs to the dwellers in tents, and would be out of place in a fine house —’
‘Then he is a gipsy,’ said Lady Palliser. ‘What a luck; escape!’
‘He looks forward to the pleasure of seeing Sir Vernon on the Hanger before long. Meanwhile he can only send his duty and best wishes for Sir Vernon’s speedy recovery.’
‘The end is a little better than the commencement,’ said Lady Palliser; ‘but I call it a great liberty for a Cheap Jack to talk of my son as his little friend.’
‘He might have left out “little,” considering that I shall be twelve next birthday,’ said Vernon, with dignity. ‘But I am his friend, mother; and I mean to be his friend always. And when I am grown up I shall take him to the Rocky Mountains, and we will hunt moose and things.’
Lady Palliser sighed, and hoped that this passion for low company would pass with the other follies of childhood.
Now that all danger was past, and that Vernon was on the high-road to health, Ida spent the greater part of her time in attendance upon her husband. It was her duty, she told herself; and she who had so failed in love must needs fulfil every duty. But the performance of this simple, wifely duty of attendance on an invalid husband was fraught with pain: his temper was so irritable, his mind was so weak, his whole being so degraded and sunk by his infirmity, that the progress of his decay was, of all forms of dissolution, the most painful for the looker-on. That he was sinking into a lower depth of degradation, rather than recovering, was sadly obvious to Ida, in spite of occasional intervals of better feeling and rare flashes of his old brightness.
The case was altogethe............