Author: George Manville Fenn
Category: Nonfiction
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CHAPTER NINETEEN.
For the better part of two days Pierce Leigh went about like one who hadreceived some terrible mental shock; and Jenny's pleasant little roundedcheeks told the tale of the anxiety from which she suffered, while hereyes followed him wistfully, and she seemed never weary of trying toperform little offices for him which would distract his attention fromthe thoughts which were sapping his vitality.
The life at the quiet little cottage home was entirely changed, forbrother and sister were playing parts for which they were quite unsuitedin a melancholy farce of real life, wearing masks, and trying to hidetheir sufferings from each other, with a miserable want of success.
And all the time Leigh was longing to open his heart to the loving,affectionate little thing who had been his companion from a child, hisconfidante over all his hopes, and counsellor in every movement or plan.She had read and studied with him, helped him to puzzle out abstrusequestions, and for years they had gone on together leading a life fullof happiness, and ready to laugh lightly over money troubles connectedwith the disappointment over the purchase of the Northwood practicethrough a swindling, or grossly ignorant, agent.
"Don't worry about it, Pierce dear," Jenny had said, "it is only theloss of some money, and as it's in the country we can live on less, andwear out our old clothes over again. I do wish I could cut up and turnyour coats and trousers. You men laugh at us and our fashions, but wewomen can laugh at you and yours. Granted that our hats and dresses areflimsy, see how we can re-trim and unpick, and make them look new again,while your stupid things get worn and shiny, and then they're good fornothing. They're quite hopeless, for I daren't try to make you a newcoat out of two old ones."
There was many a merry laugh over such matters, Jenny's spirits rising,as the country life brought back the bloom of health that had beenfailing in Westminster; and existence, in spite of the want of patients,was a very happy one, till the change came. This change to a certainextent resembled that in the yard of the amateur who was bitten by thefancy for keeping and showing those great lumbering fowls--the Brahmas,so popular years ago.
He had a pen of half-a-dozen cockerels, the result of the hatching of aclutch of eggs laid by a feathered princess of the blood royal; and ashe watched them through their infancy it was with high hopes of winningprizes--silver cups and vases, at all the crack poultry shows. And howhe tended and pampered his pets, watching them through the variousstages passed by this kind of fowl--one can hardly say feathered fowl inthe earlier stages of their existence, for through their early boyhood,so to speak, they run about in a raw unclad condition that is pitiful tosee, for they are almost "birds of a feather" in the Dundreary idea ofthe singularity of plumage; and it is not until they have arrived prettywell at full growth that they assume the heavy massive plumage thatmakes their skeleton lanky forms look so huge. These six young Brahmasmasculine grew and throve in their pen, innocent, happy, and at peace,till one morning their owner gazed upon them in pride, for they were allthat a Brahma fancier could wish to see--small of comb, heavy of hackle,tail slightly developed, broad in the beam, short-legged, and without atrace of vulture hock. "First prize for one of them," said the owner,and after feeding them he went to town, and came back to find his hopesruined, his cockerels six panting, ragged, bleeding wrecks, squattingabout in the pen, half dead, too much exhausted to spur and peck again.
For there had been battle royal in that pen, the young birds engaging ina furious melee. For what reason? Because, as good old Doctor Wattssaid, "It is their nature to." They did not know it till that morning,but there was the great passion in each one's breast, waiting to beevoked, and transform them from pacific pecking and scratching birdsinto perfect demons of discord.
There was wire netting spread all over the top of their carefully sandedpen, and till then they had never seen others of their kind. It wastheir world, and as far as they knew there was neither fowl nor chickensave themselves. The memory of the mother beneath whose plumage theyhad nestled had passed away, for the gallinaceous brain cavity is small.
That morning, a stray, pert-looking, elegantly spangled, golden Hambro'pullet appeared upon the wall, looked down for a moment on the pen offull-grown, innocent young Brahmas, uttered the monosyllables "Took,took!" and flew away.
For a brief space, the long necks of the cockerels were strained in thedirection where that vision of loveliness had appeared for a briefinstant; the fire of jealous love blazed out, and they turned and foughtalmost to the death. It would have been quite, had there been strength.
The owner of these six cripples did not take a prize.
So at Northwood, women, save as sister or friend, had been non-existentto Pierce Leigh. Now the desire to rend his human brother was upon himstrong.
Jenny knew it, and for more than one reason she trembled for the timethat must come when Pierce should first meet Claud Wilton, for it hadrapidly dawned upon her that the long-deferred grand passion of herbrother was the stronger for its sudden growth.
In her anxiety, she went out during those two days a great deal for thebenefit of her health, but really on the qui vive for the news that shefelt must soon come of Claud's proceedings with his cousin; and twiceover she had started the subject of their projected leaving, makingLeigh raise his eyebrows slightly in wonder at the sudden change in hissister's ideas. But it was not till nearly evening that, during herbrother's temporary absence, she heard the news for which she waswaiting.
One of Leigh's poor patients called to see him--one of the classsuffered by most young doctors, who go through life believing they arevery ill, and that it is the duty of a medical man to pay extraattention to their ailments, and lavish upon them knowledge and medicineto the fullest extent, without a thought of payment entering theirheads.
Betsy Bray was the lady in question, and as was her custom, Jenny sawthe woman, ready to hear her last grievance, and tell her brother whenhe returned.
Betsy was fifty-five, and possessed of the strong constitution whichbears a great deal of ease; but in her own estimation she was very bad.From frequenting surgeries, she had picked up a few medical terms, andlarded her discourse with them and others of a religious tendency, herattendance at church dole-giving, and other charitable distributionsbeing of the most regular description.
"Doctor at home, miss?" she said, plaintively, as she slowly and plumplysubsided upon the little couch in the surgery, the said piece offurniture groaning in all its springs, for Betsy possessed weight.
"No, Mrs Bray. He has gone to call on the Dudges, at West Gale."
"Ah, he always is calling on somebody when I've managed to drag my wearybones all this way up from the village."
"I am very sorry. What is the matter now?" said Jenny, soothingly.
"Matter, miss? What's allus the matter with me? It's my chronics. Nota wink of sleep have I had all the blessed night."
"Well, I must give you something."
"Nay, nay, my dear; you don't understand my troubles. It's theabsorption is all wrong; and you'd be giving me something out of thewrong bottles. You just give me a taste of sperrits to give me strengthto get home again, and beg and pray o' the doctor to come on and see meas soon as he comes home, if you don't want me to be laid out stark andcold afore another day's done."
"But I have no spirits, Mrs Bray."
"Got none? Well, I dessay a glass o' wine might do. Keep me alivep'raps till I'd crawled home to die."
"But we have no wine."
"Dear, dear, dear, think o' that," said the woman fretfully. "The olddoctor always had some, and a drop o' sperrits, too. Ah, it's a hardthing to be old and poor and in bad health, carrying your grey hairs insorrow to the grave; and all about you rich and well and happy, rollingin money, and marrying and giving in marriage and wearing their weddinggarments, one and all. You've heard about the doings up at the ManorHouse?"
"Yes, yes, something about them, Mrs Bray; but I'll tell my brother,and he will, I know, come and see you."
"Yes, you tell him; not as I believe in him much, but poor people musttake what they can get--He's come back, you know?"
"My brother? No; he would have come straight in here."
"Your brother? Tchah, no!" cried the woman, forgetting her "chronics"in the interest she felt in the fresh subject. "You're always thinkingabout your brother, and if's time you began to think of a husband. Imeant him at the Manor--young Claud Wilton. He's come back."
"Come back?" cried Jenny excitedly.
"Yes; but I hear he arn't brought his young missus with him. Nicegoings on, running away, them two, to get married. But I arn'tsurprised; he fell out with the parson long enough ago about Sally Deal,down the village, and parson give it him well for not marrying her.Wouldn't be married here out o' spite, I suppose. Well, I must go.You're sure you haven't got a drop o' gin in the house?"
"Quite sure," said Jenny quickly; "and I'll be sure and tell my brotherto come."
"Ay, do; and tell him I say it's a shame he lives so far out of thevillage. I feel sometimes that I shall die in one of the ditches beforeI get here, it's so far. There, don't hurry me so; I don't want to betook ill here. I know, doctors aren't above helping people out of theworld when they get tired of them."
"Gone!" cried Jenny at last, with a sigh of relief; and then, with thetears rising to her eyes, "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Ifthey meet--if he ever gets to know!"
She hurried upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, and came down lookingpale and excited, but without any very definite plans. One idea wasforemost in her mind; but as she reached the door she caught sight ofher brother coming with rapid strides from the direction opposite tothat taken by the old woman who had just gone.
"Too late!" she said, with a piteous sigh; and she ran upstairshurriedly, and threw off her things.
She had hardly re-arranged her hair when she heard her brother's voicecalling her.
"Yes, dear," she said, and she ran down, to find him looking ghastly.
"Who was that went away from here?" he said huskily.
She told him, but not of her promise to send him over.
"I'll go to her at once," he said.
"No, no, Pierce, dear; she is not ill. Pray stay at home; there isreally no need."
"Why should I stay at home?" he said, looking at her suspiciously.
"I--I am not very well, dear. You have been so dull, it has upset me.I wish you would stay in with me this evening; I feel so nervous andlonely."
"Yes, I will," he said; "but I must go there first."
"No, no, dear; don't, please, don't go," she pleaded, as she caught hisarm. "Please stay. She is not in the least ill, and I want you tostop. There, I'll make some tea directly, and we'll sit over it andhave a long cosy chat, and it will do us both good, dear."
"Jenny," he cried harshly, "you want to keep me at home."
"Yes, dear, I told you so; but don't speak in that harsh way; youfrighten me."
"I'm not blind," he cried. "Don't deny it. You've heard from that oldwoman what I have just found out. He has come back."
"Pierce!" she cried; and she shrank away from him, and covered her facewith her hands.
"Yes," he said wildly, and there was a look in his ghastly face whichshe had never seen before. "I knew it; and you are afraid that I shallmeet him and wring his miserable neck."
"Oh, Pierce, Pierce," she cried piteously, as she threw herself at hisfeet; "don't, don't, pray don't talk in this mad way."
"Why not?" he said, with a mocking laugh. "It is consistent. There,get up; don't kneel there praying to a madman."
She sprang up quickly and seized him by the shoulder, and then threwherself across his knees and her arms about his neck.
"It is not true," she cried passionately. "You are not mad; you areonly horribly angry, and I am frightened to death for fear that youshould meet and be violent."
"Violent! I could kill him!" he muttered, with a hard look in his eyes."Good God, what a profanation! He marry her! She must have been mad,or there has been some cruel act of violence. Jenny, girl, I will seehim and take him by the throat and make him tell me all. I have foughtagainst it. I have told myself that she is unworthy of a secondthought, but my heart tells me that it is not so. There has been somehorrible trick played upon her; she would not--as you have said--shecould not have gone off of her own will with that miserable littlehound."
"Yes, yes, that is what I think," she said, hysterically. "So waitpatiently, dear, and we shall know the truth some day."
"Wait!" he cried, with a mocking laugh. "Wait! With my brain feelingas if it were on fire. No, I have waited too long; I ought to have goneoff after him at once, and learned the truth."
"No, no, dear; you two must not meet. Now then, listen to me."
"Some day, little bird," he said, lifting her from his knee, as he rose;then kissing her tenderly he extricated himself from her clinging handsas gently as he could, and rushed out.
"O, Pierce, Pierce!" she cried. "Stay, stay!"
But the only answer to her call as she ran to the door was the heavybeat of his feet in the gloom of the misty evening.
"And if they meet he'll find out all," she wailed piteously. Shepaused, waiting for a few moments, and then searched in her pocket andbrought out a tiny silver whistle, which she placed in the bosom of herdress, after flinging the ribbon which was in its ring over her head.
A minute later, with her cloak thrown on and hood drawn over her head,she had slipped out of the cottage, and was running down the by-lane inthe direction of the Manor House.