Chapter Four.
Borrowed!
I sat down at once by Jack’s bedside.
“What are you going to tell me?” I asked.
“How prosaic you are, Rose.”
“Well, you never like me to make a fuss.”
“That is true, and no doubt you will act sensibly in the present emergency. It is nice to be pitied, and affection is of value, but sense, oh yes, unquestionably common sense comes first of all.” I could not help gazing at Jack with wide-open round eyes while he was speaking.
“You never in your whole life asked me to show feeling or affection,” I managed to gasp out. “What do you mean by regretting it now? Your head must be wandering.”
“Well, well, Rose, perhaps it is. It certainly aches badly enough to account for any vagaries in my speech. But now to business—or rather to the kernel of the matter. Rose, I am going to be very ill, very dangerously ill—do you understand?”
“I hope I don’t, Jack. You have a bad headache, which will soon get better.”
“I repeat, I am going to be dangerously ill. I have taken fever. I know the symptoms, for I have watched them in another.”
“In another? Whom do you mean? When have you been with a fever-stricken patient?”
“You will start when you hear my next words. I have been nursing my wife through fever.”
“Jack—your wife! Are you married? Oh, Jack!”
“Well, go on, Rosamund. Get over your astonishment. Say, ‘Oh Jack!’ as often as you like, only believe in the fact without my having to repeat it to you. I am married. My wife has scarlet fever; I have nursed her till I could hold up no longer, and now I have taken it myself.”
I looked full into my brother’s face. It was flushed now, and his brown eyes were bright. He was a big fellow, and he looked absolutely handsome as he sat up in bed with the fever gleam shining through his eyes, and a certain sad droop about his still boyish mouth. I own that I never found Jack so interesting before. He had behaved very badly, of course, in marrying any one secretly, but he was the hero of a romance. He had feeling and affection. I quite loved him. I bent forward and kissed him on his cheek.
“Go on,” I said. “You want me to help you. Tell me all the story as quickly as you can.”
“But you will shrink from me when you know all.”
“No, I promise that I won’t. Now do go on.”
“I believe I must tell you quickly, for this pain rages and rages, and I can scarcely collect my thoughts. Now then, Rosamund, these are the bare facts. Six months ago I fell in love with Hetty. Her other name doesn’t matter, and who she was doesn’t matter. I used to meet her in the mornings when she walked to a school where she was teaching. We were married and I took her to some lodgings in Putney.”
“But you had no money.”
“Well, I had scarcely any. I used to make an odd pound now and then by bringing home work to copy, and Hetty did not lose her situation as teacher. She still went to the school, and she told no one of her marriage. I meant to break it to you all when I began to get my salary, for you know my time of apprenticeship will expire at Christmas. Things wouldn’t have turned out so badly, for Hetty has the simplest tastes, poor little darling, if she had not somehow or other got this horrible scarlet fever. She was so afraid I’d take her to the hospital; but not I!—the landlady and I nursed her between us.”
“But, Jack, where did you get the money?” The heavy flush got deeper on my brother’s brow. He turned his head away, and his manner became almost gruff.
“That’s the awkward part,” he growled. “I—I borrowed the money.”
“From whom?”
“Chillingfleet.”
“Mr Chillingfleet? He’s the head of your firm, isn’t he?”
“Yes, yes. I went into his room one day. His private drawer was open; I took four five-pound notes. That was last Monday. He won’t miss them until next Monday—the day he makes up his accounts. I thought Hetty was dying, and the notes stared me in the face, and I—I borrowed them. He has tens of thousands of pounds, and I—I borrowed twenty.”
“Jack—Jack—you stole them!”
I covered my face with my hands; I trembled all over.
“Oh, don’t, Rose! call me by every ugly name you like—there, I know I’m a brute.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. I had recovered myself by this time. I looked at his poor flushed face, at his trembling hands. He was a thief, he had brought disgrace upon our poor but honest name, but at this moment I loved him fifty times better than George.
“Listen to me, Jack,” I said. “I won’t say one other word to abuse you at present. What’s more, I will do what I can to help you.”
“God bless you, Rosamund. You don’t really mean that? Really and truly?”
“I really and truly mean it. Now lie down and let me put these sheets straight. This is Friday. Something can be done between now and Monday. Are you quite sure that Mr Chillingfleet will not find out the loss of the notes before Monday?”
“Yes, he always banks on Monday, and he makes up his accounts then. Rose, you have got no money; you cannot save me.”
“I have certainly got no money, Jack, but I have got woman’s wit. Have you spent all the twenty pounds?”
“Every farthing. I owed a lot to Mrs Ashton, Hetty’s landlady.”
“Now you must give me Hetty’s address.”
“Oh, I say, Rose, you are a brick! Are you going to see her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you going to-day?”
“I’ll go, if I possibly can.”
“You must be very gentle with her, remember.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And for goodness’ sake don’t frighten her about me.”
“No.”
“You must make up some kind of excuse about me. You must on no account let out that I have caught this horrible thing. Do you understand, Rosamund, if Hetty finds this out it will kill her at once.”
“I’ll do my very best for you, Jack. I won’t do anything to injure Hetty. I don’t know her, but I think I can promise that. Now, please, give me her address.”
“Twenty-four, Peacock Buildings, fourth story, care of Mrs Ashton. When you get to Putney, you turn down Dorset Street, and it’s the fifth turning to the right. Can you remember?”
“Yes, yes. Now lie still. I am going to send mother to you.”
When I reached the door, I turned and looked back. Jack was gazing wistfully after me, his eyes were full of tears.
“Rose, you’re a brick,” said the poor fellow; and then he turned his face to the wall. I closed the door very softly and went down to the drawing-room where mother sat.
I went up to her, and took the mending out of her thin, white hands, and bending down kissed her.
“What is the matter, Rose, my dear?” she said. We were not a family for embraces, and she wondered at this mark of demonstration. When she raised her eyes to my face, she could not restrain a little cry, for with all my efforts I did not absolutely conceal the marks of strong emotion.
“Mother,” I said, “you must put away your mending for the present.”
“Why so, my dear? I am particularly anxious to get on with this invisible darning, for I wish to begin to refront Jack’s shirts to-morrow.”
“The shirts must keep, mother. Jack wants you for something else just now—he is very ill.”
“Ill? Poor fellow, he did look as if he had a bad headache.”
“Yes, I think we ought to send for Mr Ray.”
“What! For the doctor? Because of a headache? Rose, dear, are you getting fanciful?”
“I trust not, mother, but I really think Jack is ill, and I am afraid it is more than a headache that ails him.”
“What do you know about illness, child?”
“Well, mother dear, go up yourself and see.” My mother went softly out of the room. Her light footsteps ascended the creaking stairs. I heard her open Jack’s bedroom door and shut it behind her. In about five minutes she had rejoined me in the drawing-room.
“Rose, will you put on your hat, and go round to Mr Ray, and ask him to call at once.”
My mother now spoke as if the idea of fetching the doctor had originated with herself.
“Jack is very ill, Rose,” she said, looking at me, pathetically.
“Yes, mother, I fear he is. Now, listen to me, please; if you are going to nurse him, you are not to be tired in any way; you are to have no anxieties down-stairs. When I go out, mother, I am going to fetch in Jane Fleming as well as Mr Ray.”
Jane Fleming was a very capable woman who lived in the village; she could take the part of housekeeper, nurse, cook, dressmaker, as occasion offered. She was quiet and taciturn, and kept herself, as the neighbours said, “to herself.” I felt that Jane would be a safe person to listen to Jack’s wanderings, and that my mother might safely sleep while Jane watched by the sick man’s side.
Accordingly I said, “I will fetch in Jane Fleming,” and I turned a deaf ear when my mother murmured the word expense.
“If the worst comes I will sell the ruby ring,” I thought to myself, “but I won’t sell it unless all other resources fail me.”
I put on my hat and jacket and went out. The shades of evening were already falling. I was dreadfully afraid that I might meet my father and George. I did not wish to see them at that moment. I felt that their coldness and want of sympathy would unnerve me. They would have every reason to be cold, for why should they fuss themselves over Jack’s bad headache? and yet I, knowing the tragedy which lay beneath that apparently commonplace pain, felt that I could not stand the slight sneer of indifference which would greet my announcement at that moment. Jack, compared to George and my father, was a very black sinner indeed. The cardinal sin of theft could be laid at his door. He was guilty of gross deception; he was weak, he was imprudent, nay more, he was mad, for by what sacred right had he bound his own life to that of another, when it was impossible for him to fulfil the vows he had taken?
And yet, Jack, I loved you better than I had ever done before in my whole life at that moment; now in your pain, your helplessness, your degradation, I would spare you even from a sneer. You trusted me, Jack, and I resolved to prove myself worthy of your trust, and, if possible, if in any way within my power, to save you.
I walked down the village street, and reached Jane Fleming’s house. She was ironing some collars in her neat kitchen.
“Jane,” I said, “my brother Jack is ill, and mother wants you to go up and help to nurse him.”
“Yes, Miss Rosamund,” replied Jane, in her quiet, unsurprised way. “Am I likely to be required for the night, miss?”
“Yes, Jane, you certainly are.”
“I’ll be at Ivy Lodge in ten minutes, miss,” replied Jane Fleming.
I left the house without another word. Mr Ray lived a little farther off, but I was lucky in finding him also at home. I asked him to call to see Jack at once, and then I turned off in the direction of the railway station. I must be really wary now, for it would be fatal to Jack’s peace of mind were my father and George to see me going to town at that hour. I managed to elude them, however, and going into the ladies’ waiting-room scribbled a little note to my mother.
“Dear mother,” I said, “you must not be at all anxious. I am going to town on important business for Jack. Don’t on any account tell father and George, and expect me home some time to-morrow.”
I gave my note to a small boy who was lounging about outside the station. He was to deliver the little note into Jane Fleming’s hands. No one else was to get it. I knew Jane sufficiently well to be sure she would give it to my mother unobserved.
Shortly afterwards my train came up, and I found myself being whirled back to London in a second-class compartment. Fares were cheap on our line, and I was relieved to find that I had five shillings still untouched in my purse. I got to Paddington in a little over half an hour,—the train I travelled by was an express,—and then stepping into an omnibus I was carried slowly, and with many provoking delays, to Regent Circus. I had never been in London by night before, and the dazzling lights and pushing crowds would have nonplussed me considerably another time. Under ordinary circumstances I might have felt uncomfortable and even a little afraid. Every idea of strict propriety in which I had been brought up would have protested against the situation in which I had placed myself. I was a lady, a very young lady, and it was not correct for me to perambulate these gaslit streets alone.
As it turned out, however, I had no time for fear, nor was there the smallest cause for alarm. No one noticed the plainly, almost dowdily dressed girl, as with dull apprehension in her eyes, and a queer reserve fund of fortitude in her heart, she hurried along.
I soon reached the house I had visited early in the morning, and almost gave Buttons an electric shock by once more inquiring for Susan Ford. I knew that it was necessary to propitiate Buttons, and poor as I was I expended sixpence on that worthy.
“Go and tell Susan that I must see her without fail, and at once,” I said.
Buttons stuck his tongue into his cheek, very nearly winked at me, but refrained, and promising to do his best, vanished.
Susan was evidently busy at this hour. I sat for nearly a quarter of an hour in that cold stone-flagged hall waiting for her. She came down at last, looking perplexed and even cross.
“My missis is in a temper, Miss Rosamund. Of course I’m delighted to see you, miss, but I can’t stay; I really can’t. We’re all in no end of confusion up-stairs. Oh, Miss Rosamund, you do look cold and white! I wish I could take you up to my room, but I just daren’t. Is there anything I could do for you, miss? Please say it as quick as you can.”
I clutched hold of Susan’s shoulder.
“You know the ring,” I said.
“Oh yes, miss; you don’t want me to go back to Sam with it now, miss?”
“No, no, no! I am not going to sell my precious ruby ring; but, Susan, you said to-day that your mistress sometimes hired out jewels. Fine ladies, who wanted to look extra fine, borrowed jewels. Of course, when they borrowed, they paid. Look at my ring once again, Susan. See! Here under the gas-lamp, does it not sparkle? Would not the gems look well on a small, fair hand?”
While I was speaking Susan remained motionless, but I noticed that she began to breathe hard and quick.
“I do believe that this will set everything right,” she said, “I do most positively believe it. You give me the ring, miss, and stay here. I’ll be back in a minute; don’t you stir till I come back to you, Miss Rosamund.”
“Listen, Susan, I must have money for the ring, money down. The more you can get the better, and I’ll hire it out for one night only. Remember that, Susan, I only hire out the ring for one night.”
“All right, miss, give me the ring at once. This may set matters straight again. There ain’t no saying. I’ll attend to all you want, Miss Rosamund, never you fear.”
Susan almost snatched the old-fashioned little case out of my hand, sprang up the stairs three steps at a time, and vanished.
I waited in the great, cold, empty hall with no other companion than my fast-beating heart.
I had a curious sense of loneliness and even desolation, now that I had parted with the ring. It seemed to me that Cousin Geoffrey was near, and that he was looking at me reproachfully. I almost regretted what I had done; if I had known where to find Susan I would have rushed after her, and asked her for my ring back.
As it was, I had to restrain my impatience as best I could. Perhaps Susan would be unsuccessful; perhaps in a moment or two she would bring me back the ring. She did nothing of the kind. She kept me waiting for a quarter of an hour, then she came back with five pounds in her hand.
“My missis is awfully obliged to you, Miss Rosamund, and—and here’s five sovereigns, miss. I couldn’t get more, I couldn’t really.”
“And my ring, Susan, my ring?”
“You’ll have it back to-morrow, miss.”
“But is my precious ring safe? Is it in the house? Where is it?”
“Where is your ring, Miss Rosamund?” Susan stared at me, and spoke almost pettishly. “Didn’t you say you wanted to hire the ring out, miss? Well, and haven’t I done it? The ring is out—it’s seeing company to-night, that ruby ring; it’s having a fine time; it belongs to grand folk for the night, and it’s seeing life, that’s what it is. Oh, I wish I was it! I think, Miss Rosamund, that ring is going to have a lovely time.”
“And you’re sure I shall have it back by to-morrow?”
“Why, of course, miss. You come here about twelve o’clock. I shouldn’t be surprised if Madame wanted to do another hire with it; she seemed mighty taken with the big ruby, and I dare say the young lady who wears it to-night may want it again. But of course that’s as you please, miss.”
“Of course, Susan. Well, I am very much obliged to you, and I will call to-morrow at noon.” I slipped the five sovereigns into my purse, shook hands with Susan, and left the house. I felt wonderfully independent; the touch of the gold had done this. It was marvellous with what a sense of power I now looked around me. I felt at that instant what a gulf there was between the rich and the poor. With five shillings I could be timid; with five pounds I could be wonderfully calm, collected, and brave.
I walked as composedly down the gaslit streets as if I had done so every evening of my life. I entered a grocer’s shop and bought half a pound of tea, very good tea. I also bought sugar, Brand’s meat jelly, and a pound of paraffin candles. As I was leaving the shop I thought how fond mother was of rusks when she was ill. I turned back and got some. I was now quite laden with parcels, and as I knew I must purchase several more, and could not possibly carry them all in my hands, the next thing was to secure a basket. I was not long in discovering a sort of bazaar, where miscellaneous articles of every description were to be had. I chose a serviceable basket, paid for it, popped my groceries in, and went out. I soon added to the store a chicken, two pounds of beef for beef-tea, a loaf of bread, and some fresh butter. Finally I placed on the top of the basket a bunch of fine hothouse grapes, two or three lemons, some oranges, and, lastly, a great lovely bunch of chrysanthemums.
Now, I felt that I was ready for Putney.
I retraced my steps to Regent Circus, and after a little delay found myself in an omnibus which would finally land me at Victoria.
I need not describe my brief journey to Putney; I had no adventures on the road. No one spoke rudely to me, or stared at me, or molested me in any fashion. The train was punctual, and my fellow-passengers civil.
When I got out at Putney station I did not lose my way, for Jack’s directions were explicit, and my head felt wonderfully clear.
It was, however, between nine and ten o’clock at night when I arrived at the lodging-house where my brother’s poor young wife lay ill.
I knocked at the door, and the landlady, who had watery eyes and an ugly sodden sort of face, presently answered the summons.
She opened the door about six inches, and stared at me suspiciously from head to foot.
“Does Mrs Lindley live here?” I asked.
“No, there’s no one of that name in the house.” She prepared to shut the door in my face.
“Stay,” I exclaimed, pressing my hand against the panel of the door, “there is a young lady here who is very ill. I am her husband’s sister, and I have come with a message from him, and I have brought several things that she wants. I must see her at once.”
The landlady looked at the heavy basket in my hand. She glanced at my face, which I am sure was resolved in expression. She listened to my voice, which was firm.
“Oh, you mean Mrs Gray,” she exclaimed. “Yes, poor thing, she’s as bad as bad can be. I suppose you had better come up and see her, if you have any message from her husband. It’s a perfect worry to hear her calling out for him all the time, and maybe you can quiet her down a bit.”
The landlady mounted the narrow stairs slowly. They were dirty, as stairs in all such houses are; there were many gaps in the banisters, and many sad rents and signs of wear on the greasy carpets. I could have moralised, as I walked up the stairs behind the broad-backed landlady. I could have stored up materials for an excellent little essay on the shady side of lodging-house life. But my heart was too full just then to think of anything but the girl whom I was about to visit, the girl whom my brother had married without even giving her his rightful name.
Poor people are often the proudest, and we Lindleys had what is commonly called “honest pride.” That simply means that we were honest; we had no double dealings; we paid our way not only with coin of the realm, but with promises which were kept, with endeavours which terminated in results. It could not enter into our heads to cheat our brothers; we could do without luxuries, but we could not part with even a hair’s-breadth of honour.
The first scapegrace in a family like ours causes, therefore, those anguished blushes, those shrinkings of the soul which are about the worst forms of pain. I felt as if I were being roasted at a slow fire of public condemnation as I followed Mrs Ashton up-stairs. I was almost sorry at that moment that my conscience was so tender.
The landlady did not stop until she reached the attic floor; then she turned and pointed to the door of a room which was slightly open.
“Mrs Gray’s in there,” she said; “you can go in.”
She did not offer to come with me. On the contrary she turned her broad back and descended the stairs with many bumps and bangs. I walked softly into the small low attic which had been thrown open for my entrance.
My steps were light, and the room was almost entirely in shadow, for the fire had gone out, and one solitary candle was already dying in its socket.
Light as my footfall was, however, it was heard, for a high-pitched, querulous, weak voice said instantly:—
“Is that you, Jack? Is that really you at last?”
“No,” I replied to the voice, “I am not Jack, but I am the next best thing, I am Jack’s sister. I have brought you a great many messages from him. Now lie quite still, until I light a candle, and then I will tell you everything.”
The figure in the bed gave utterance to a queer kind of astonished groan, but no further sound of any kind came from the lips. I fumbled in my basket until I found the pound of candles; I lit one at the expiring embers in the socket, found two showy candlesticks on the mantelpiece, filled both, and lighted them, and then, going over to the bed, bent down to take a good look at my sister.
I saw a small dark face; two big beautiful eyes looked up at me; a weak little peevish mouth trembled; the lips were drawn down; I saw that tears, and perhaps hysterics, were close at hand. I touched the girl’s forehead with my hand, it was damp from weakness, but there was no fever.
“Before I tell you any of my story I must make you comfortable, Hetty,” I said.
“Hetty?” she whispered, in a kind of terror. “How do you know anything about me?”
“Jack has told me, of course; it’s all right, I assure you. He is prevented coming to-night, so I am going to be your nurse. Oh, yes, I will talk to you presently, but not yet, not until you have had some food, and I have made you comfortable.”
I now observed that the girl’s face was ghastly pale. Yes, the fever was gone, but she was in almost the last extremity of weakness. I rushed again to my basket, took out the tin of Brand’s jelly, opened it, and gave her a spoonful. It acted as a stimulant at once, and I felt that I might leave her while I ran down-stairs to interview the landlady.
Oh, the wonders that a purse full of money can effect! With the chink of that gold I softened Mrs Ashton’s obdurate heart. Jack’s wife became “Poor dear!” and an object of the deepest interest in her eyes. She bundled up-stairs herself, to re-light the fire in the miserable attic. She supplied me with unlimited warm water, clean towels, and clean sheets, and when I asked her if she could roast a fowl, and send it up hot in about an hour’s time, she readily promised to do what I required.
In her absence I affected wonders in the attic room. I made it cheerful with fire-light and candle-light. I opened the window and let in some purer air. Having fed my patient, I proceeded to comb out her beautiful curly dark hair. I then washed her face and hands, and made the bed over again with the clean sheets.
When the landlady brought up the fowl nicely done to a turn, we were both ready for it. The good food, the care, the cheerful light, the purer atmosphere had already done wonders for Hetty. She lost the nervous, frightened manner which at first had made it almost distressing to speak to her. Her eyes shone; the colour dawned faintly in her white cheeks, and when I fed her with tender bits of chicken, she even smiled up into my face with a world of love and gratitude in her eyes.
“You are good to me, miss,” she whispered.
“You must not call me miss, my name is Rosamund. I am your husband’s sister.”
But this allusion made her blush painfully, and she drew once more into her shell.
When Hetty and I had finished our chicken, I set what was left carefully away, and putting out one of the candles sat down by the bedside, and told my new sister that she must go to sleep.
“But you, miss?—oh! I beg your pardon,”—she stopped, confusion in her tone.
“Never mind,” I said, soothingly. I saw this was not the time to commence her education. “Go to sleep,” I said, and bending forward I touched her forehead lightly with my lips. Her eyes looked full back into mine. I had never seen such a wealth of love in any eyes. The lids fell languidly over them. She obeyed me with a happy, satisfied sigh.