The Frobishers/Chapter 26
A SECOND FAVOUR
Joan quitted the potbank considerably earlier than usual on the following day, in order to see to poor little Tom.
She was plunged in difficulties. The child could not be moved. His condition was critical. Not only so, but he would remain in a frail state for some time, should he recovers and when he was mending, to have to send him back to Marlpit Corner, to the squalor and destitution and cold that prevailed there, would be a consignment to relapse and death.
It was true that there was a hospital in the town, and as Joan now saw, her proper course would have been to get the boy removed to it. But she had not thought of that when she found him so ill, and she had promised the boy that she would take him to her house and nurse him. A promise was too sacred to be broken, and she felt that, having once made it, she could not go back from it.
Sibyll would listen to no explanation, hear no petition in the boy's behalf. She adhered to her resolution with stubbornness. She reiterated her determination to look out for a lodging elsewhere, in some house where there was no fever, and where she would not be under the sway of a domineering sister.
"I am really very greatly perplexed, Sibyll," Joan said; "I daresay I did wrong"—
"There is no doubt about it, you did very wrong."
"Well—I did wrong. But the poor little fellow was so ill, and his surroundings were so dreadful, that I thought of nothing but how he could be got away from them."
"Exactly—forgot me. I am accustomed to this treatment, and I resent it. You should have sent him to the hospital. What are those institutions for, and why do we subscribe to them?"
"Do you subscribe to the hospital, Sibyll?"
"You know what I mean. People who have money to spare subscribe, so as to get sick persons put away, and not be a nuisance and trouble and danger to them, if you had reported the case to the relieving officer, you would have done quite enough under the circumstances, and have a clear conscience."
"Perhaps so," answered Joan, looking dreamily down the street, "but—I did not think of it at the time; I only thought of the little boy and how miserable he was. I said to him, Will you come with me, and let me nurse you? Then he put his arms round my neck and jumped up in his bed. I don't think I could go back from what I offered; it would be dishonourable. Besides, Sibyll, just consider this. At the hospital—if he were there, he would be kept only just so long as they were able, and they would send him back to that awful place again, and all would be undone. He wants attention and good food and watching."
"Good heavens, Joan!" exclaimed her sister, "you don't mean to say you are going to keep this little horror here indefinitely? He will eat you out of house and home; convalescents are ravenous and dainty withal. Besides—I have pronounced my ultimatum." Then she walked away.
Joan was in a sad dilemma. The only way out of it that she saw was to persuade Tom to consent to be removed; and yet she shrank from proposing this to him.
Joan was greatly astonished, and not a little annoyed, on entering the parlour, to find Hector Beaudessart there, seated before the fire, looking through her photographic album.
At her entry he started up with an exclamation, put down the book, and held out both hands.
"Cousin," said he, "I have daringly invaded your queendom, disregarded all your wishes, and cast your injunctions to the winds. But I could not keep away; upon my soul, it is so! Now that I am here, laden with trespasses, let us have a talk."
She took a chair without a word. She had not recovered her astonishment; and she signed to him to be again seated.
His face was bright, his eye alight; his glossy brown hair curled about his head and rippled over his brow. He was flushed on one cheek that had been exposed to the fire.
Joan could hear little Tom coughing upstairs, and Cissie rocking her chair as she sat by him. Her back was to the window, and what light entered fell on Hector's face; a pleasant face, that of a man who could never do a mean or cruel thing, but careless and happy.
"You have a hospital here, apparently," said he lightly. "I hear that there is a sick lad overhead, down with congested lungs or pneumonia, and is being nursed, as I perceive, by an anaemic girl, whom I have seen, for she came to the door when I knocked. Another put in her appearance, with a paralysed hand. She tells me that she half belongs to this house. Can you guess what question she put to me? She said, 'Do you want to see our Joan?'"
"That is Polly, who lives next door, and is very helpful. Indeed, I do not know what I should do without her, now especially that there is this sick child here. By the way, you know him, and gave him half a sovereign for betraying where I lived."
"What, that audacious young vagabond?"
"Yes; and his father purloined the money when the boy was asleep, and drank himself drunk on it, So your gold coin ran down his throat in a stream of bad beer. Tom had purposed buying himself a pair of boots, but was unable to do so owing to his father having taken the money. Then he got a bad chill, and you hear the result."
"If he recovers he shall have boots from me, I promise you."
"If he recovers!—his condition is most precarious."
"How the dickens comes he here?"
"His father was incapable of attending to him, and he has no mother."
"So you took him?"
"It was the only chance there was for the poor little wretch."
"In some points you are like my sister Julie."
"She found her purpose in life when only thirteen; I had to wait till I was three-and-twenty to find mine."
He looked at her with a puzzled expression. Presently he said—
"Really, cousin, this is hardly a proper place for you. My mother has been distressed since I discovered where you were, and what you were doing, so that at last I undertook to brave your displeasure and go and see you. She sends me with an urgent message, an entreaty that you will leave this place."
"I cannot—any more than Julie can quit her hospital."
"Oh, she enjoys 'cases,' as she calls them. Give her a good complication, and she is in the seventh heaven."
"No, she does not enjoy them. You misread her. She can throw her whole heart into a case that makes great demands on her."
"But surely you do not mean that you are content to stay in such a place as this?"
"Quite content."
"And have no desire to leave it?"
"I cannot leave it. I have found a place in which I must be. Hitherto there has been in me a listlessness, a want of I knew not what, and now it is quite otherwise."
"And nothing will induce you to abandon it?"
"Abandon!—nothing whatever."
"And no one has any power to prevail over you?"
"No one but my landlord, who may turn me out, and then I would find another house."
"I do not understand you, I do not indeed—any more than I do my sister Julie."
"Because you do not know what she and I know. In ignorance is your bliss."
"But what of your sister Sibyll?"
Joan's hands were clasped in her lap; she compressed them, and looked down in trouble.
"How about her? Does she share your liking for this black hole?"
"No. She has a different nature from mine. Hers is one that revels only in sunshine. She is a butterfly that folds its wings and shivers under a leaf in darkness and rain and cold. Mine is more the nature of a grub. No, I cannot say that this life suits her."
"Then," said Hector eagerly, "listen to me. Will you grant my mother this one favour? On a former occasion you unbent so far as to grant me one—to send you a hamper of holly. Now yield to my mother's entreaty, and send Cousin Sibyll to be with her." Joan looked up with a gasp.
"You have but to say 'Yes,'" proceeded Hector, "and my mother will come here and fetch her away. You do not realise how she desires it, and what a favour she would esteem it. Let me see—the day after to-morrow. It will be good of you if you show so great confidence in my mother."
"Yes," said Joan, and covered her face. She did not cry, but the tears were very near the surface, and a lump came in her throat. Her bosom was heaving like a stormy sea. "Yes, yes," she said, "I thank you a thousand times. Sibyll cannot stand this existence. She was not made for it. One must be a grub to love the mud, and she is not that—not that at all."
"It is my mother who is indebted to you," said Hector quickly; then stood up and walked irresolutely through the room.
She did not look at him, but she heard him as he paced.
Presently he stood still, took up the photographic album, ruffled through it, and set it on the table again.
"When your sister is gone, surely there will not be any necessity for you to remain and work?"
"On that day that we first met, in Littlefold Wood, and you so kindly helped me with the horse, the hounds fell on the fox and tore Reynard to pieces. Sibyll was there, and I remember her telling me and you that a butterfly was flickering over that horrible scene. It was out of place, and Sibyll is quite as truly out of place here!"
"But here there is no tragedy."
"No tragedy! Do you hear that boy coughing? Do you hear that pale girl rocking? Did you see that other cripple with her dropped wrist? These are but samples. The whole place teems with tragedies; and such a place is unsuited for a butterfly."
"And it is for you?"
"Yes. I feel that I was created to be here."
"No one will persuade you to adopt a different opinion?"
"No one."
"And no consideration—no offer made to you of a bright, a happy life?"—
She shook her head.
"I fail to understand you."
"Julie said to me, on the one occasion that I met her, and I have never forgotten her words, though then I could not understand them. She said to me, 'The apostle, when he had learned the truth, exclaimed, "Woe is me if I preach not the gospel."' No, I did not comprehend her then, nor did I the meaning of St. Paul. Now, however, I do, and I say, Woe is me if I do not stick to my post here. I have found my destination. I have found my vocation. I have found my friends."
"And will you admit no others into friendship?"
"I do not say that. The more one begins to exercise sympathy, the wider one's sympathies grow. The more the heart acquires the faculty of feeling: the greater becomes its power to feel."
"Well, Cousin Joan," said the young man, and he extended his hand, "good-evening and good-bye I must return by a night train. I have your word. My mother will come here on Monday to fetch away your sister."
He took her hand and held it for a moment looking at her. She did not venture to raise her eyes, fearing what she might read in his and her power of resistance to an appeal from them.
He dropped her hand with a sigh, and went out.
Joan put her hands over her face for a moment, but only for a moment, then ran upstairs to see Tom.
The doctor had been there, and would send medicine. He trusted that he would be able to pull the little fellow through—but the child demanded the closest care and constant supplies of nourishment.
Tom was sleeping in the comfortable bed, his dark hair spread on the pillow. The fiery face showed like a carnation on snow.
Joan stooped over him, and remained bowed. Cissie continued rocking. She continued in this bent condition, looking down on the boy, for some little while, partly contemplating him, partly occupied with thoughts of the interview that had taken place, and with the prospect of losing her sister.
The boy's sleep was broken by the strangling of his cough, and now and then his eyes were seen, but only to close again. The breath was very short. All at once the long-controlled tears filled Joan's eyes, and one dropped on the sufferer's cheek. He half disclosed his eyes, put up a hot hand and patted her on the face, and then sank into unconsciousness again.
Joan raised herself, and without speaking—for her heart was too full for words—descended the stairs.
Sibyll had just come in, and was in a very bad humour. She had been unable to find any lodgings that were even tolerable at the terms she offered.
"My dear," said Joan, "are you still resolved on leaving me?"
"I am not going to live in a fever hospital."
"You shall leave the day after to-morrow."
"Whither?"
"For Pendabury. Mr. Beaudessart has been here with a message from his mother about you, that you will pay her a visit and remain with her indefinitely."
"Joy!" exclaimed the girl, her sulks falling off like a wet dropped waterproof. "The thing of all others to suit me. What about yourself?"
"I, of course, remain here."
"I see no 'of course' in it."
"We cannot both burden Mrs. Beaudessart."
"Oh! as to burden, my dear Joan, I shall bring life and light into the house. Trust me, I shall turn Mr. Beaudessart round my finger. Take my word for it, if I set my foot again in Pendabury, I shall never leave it. The old woman can be packed off to Rosewood. I bet you a ten-button pair of gloves that, before a twelvemonth is out, I shall have made him marry me."
Joan looked at her sister in some amazement, and not a little distress. Presently, with a sigh, she said, "Well, perhaps it would be for the best."
"There can be no perhaps in the case. Trust me. I know the weak side of men. I shall manage it, and become queen of Pendabury."