Part 32 (1/2)

Arthur burst out laughing. ”I wish you wouldn't be such an old duffer, Jenkins--as the college boys have it! Do you suppose I should let you go home by yourself? Come along.”

Drawing Jenkins's arm within his own, Arthur turned with him. Jenkins really did not like it. Sensitive to a degree was he: and, to his humble mind, it seemed that Arthur was out of place, walking familiarly with him.

”You must have been doing something to tire yourself,” said Arthur as they went along.

”It has been a pretty busy day, sir, now Mr. Galloway's away. I did not go home to dinner, for one thing.”

”And Mr. Roland Yorke absent for another, I suppose?”

”Only this afternoon, sir. His uncle, Lord Carrick, has arrived. Oh, sir!” broke off Jenkins, stopping in a panic, ”here's his lords.h.i.+p the bishop coming along! Whatever shall you do?”

”Do!” returned Arthur, scarcely understanding him. ”What should I do?”

”To think that he should see you thus with the like of me!”

It amused Arthur exceedingly. Poor, lowly-minded Jenkins! The bishop appeared to divine the state of the case, for he stopped when he came up. Possibly he was struck by the wan hue which overspread Jenkins's face.

”You look ill, Jenkins,” he said, nodding to Arthur Channing. ”Keep your hat on, Jenkins--keep your hat on.”

”Thank you, my lord,” replied Jenkins, disregarding the injunction touching his hat. ”A sort of faintness came over me just now under the elm trees, and this gentleman insisted upon walking home with me, in spite of my protestations to--”

Jenkins was stopped by a fit of coughing--a long, violent fit, sounding hollow as the grave. The bishop watched him till it was over. Arthur watched him.

”I think you should take better care of yourself, Jenkins,” remarked his lords.h.i.+p. ”Is any physician attending you?”

”Oh, my lord, I am not ill enough yet for that. My wife made me go to Mr. Hurst the other day, my lord, and he gave me a bottle of something. But he said it was not medicine that I wanted.”

”I should advise you to go to a physician, Jenkins. A st.i.tch in time saves nine, you know,” the bishop added, in his free good humour.

”So it does, my lord. Thank your lords.h.i.+p for thinking of me,” added Jenkins, as the bishop said good afternoon, and pursued his way. And then, and not till then, did Jenkins put on his hat again.

”Mr. Arthur, would you be so kind as not to say anything to my wife about my being poorly?” asked Jenkins, as they drew near to his home. ”She'd be perhaps, for saying I should not go again yet to the office; and a pretty dilemma that would put me in, Mr. Galloway being absent. She'd get so fidgety, too: she kills me with kindness, if she thinks I am ill. The broth and arrowroot, and other messes, sir, that she makes me swallow, are untellable.”

”All right,” said Arthur.

But the intention was frustrated. Who should be standing at the shop-door but Mrs. Jenkins herself. She saw them before they saw her, and she saw that her husband looked like a ghost, and was supported by Arthur. Of course, she drew her own conclusions; and Mrs. Jenkins was one who did not allow her conclusions to be set aside. When Jenkins found that he was seen and suspected, he held out no longer, but honestly confessed the worst--that he had been taken with a giddiness.

”Of course,” said Mrs. Jenkins, as she pushed a chair here and another there, partly in temper, partly to free the narrow pa.s.sage through the shop to the parlour. ”I have been expecting nothing less all day. Every group of footsteps slower than usual, I have thought it was a shutter arriving and you on it, dropped dead from exhaustion. Would you believe”--turning short round on Arthur Channing--”that he has been such a donkey as to fast from breakfast time? And with that cough upon him!”

”Not quite so fast, my dear,” deprecated Jenkins. ”I ate the paper of sandwiches.”

”Paper of rubbis.h.!.+” retorted Mrs. Jenkins. ”What good do sandwiches do a weakly man? You might eat a ton-load, and be none the better for it. Well, Jenkins, you may take your leave of having your own way.”

Poor Jenkins might have deferentially intimated that he never did have it. Mrs. Jenkins resumed: ”He said he'd carry a sandwich with him this morning, instead of coming home to dinner. I said, 'No.' And afterwards I was such a simpleton as to yield! And here's the effects of it! Sit yourself down in the easy-chair,” she added, taking Jenkins by the arms and pus.h.i.+ng him into it. ”And I'll make the tea now,” concluded she, turning to the table where the tea-things were set out. ”There's some broiled fowl coming up for you.”

”I don't feel as if I could eat this evening,” Jenkins ventured to say.

”_Not eat_!” she repeated with emphasis. ”You had better eat--that's all. I don't want to have you falling down exhausted here, as you did in the Boundaries.”

”And as soon as you have had your tea, you should go to bed,” put in Arthur.

”I can't, sir. I have three or four hours' work at that deed. It must be done.” ”At this?” returned Arthur, opening the papers he had carried home. ”Oh, I see; it is a lease. I'll copy this for you, Jenkins. I have nothing to do to-night. You take your ease, and go to bed.”

And in spite of their calls, Jenkins's protestations against taking up his time and trouble, and Mrs. Jenkins's proffered invitation to partake of tea and broiled fowl, Arthur departed carrying off the work.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

ELLEN HUNTLEY.

”A pretty time o' day this is to deliver the letters. It's eleven o'clock!”

”I can't help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its time.”

”I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that's what it is. Coming to folks's houses at eleven o'clock, when they have been waiting and looking ever since breakfast-time!”

”It's not my fault, I say. Take the letter.”

Judith received it with a grunt, for it was between her and the postman that the colloquy had taken place. A delay had occurred that morning in the delivery, and Judith was resenting it, feeling half inclined to reject the letter, now that it had come. The letters from Germany arrived irregularly; sometimes by the afternoon post at four, sometimes by the morning; the only two deliveries in Helstonleigh. A letter had been fully expected this morning, and when the time pa.s.sed over, they supposed there was none.

It was directed to Miss Channing. Judith, who was quite as anxious about her master's health as the children were, went off at once with it to Lady Augusta Yorke's, just as she was, without the ceremony of putting on a bonnet. Though she did wear a mob-cap and a check ap.r.o.n, she looked what she was--a respectable servant in a respectable family; and the Boundaries so regarded her, as she pa.s.sed through them, letter in hand. Martha, Lady Augusta's housemaid, answered the door, presenting a contrast to Judith. Martha wore a crinoline as big as her lady's, and a starched-out muslin gown over it, with flounces and frillings, for Martha was ”dressed” for the day. Her arms, red and large, were displayed beneath her open sleeves, and something that looked like a bit of twisted lace was stuck on the back of her head. Martha called it a ”cap.” Judith was a plain servant, and Martha was a fas.h.i.+onable one; but I know which looked the better of the two.

Judith would not give in the letter. She asked for the young mistress, and Constance came to her in the hall. ”Just open it, please, Miss Constance, and tell me how he is,” said she anxiously; and Constance broke the seal of the letter.

”_Borcette. Hotel Rosenbad, September, 18--_.”

”My Dear Child,--Still better and better! The improvement, which I told you in my last week's letter had begun to take place so rapidly as to make us fear it was only a deceitful one, turns out to have been real. Will you believe it, when I tell you that your papa can _walk_! With the help of my arm, he can walk across the room and along the pa.s.sage; and to-morrow he is going to try to get down the first flight of stairs. None but G.o.d can know how thankful I am; not even my children. If this change has taken place in the first month (and it is not yet quite that), what may we not expect in the next--and the next? Your papa is writing to Hamish, and will confirm what I say.”

This much Constance read aloud. Judith gave a glad laugh. ”It's just as everybody told the master,” said she. ”A fine, strong, handsome man, like him, wasn't likely to be laid down for life like a baby, when he was hardly middle-aged. These doctors here be just so many m.u.f.fs. When I get too old for work, I'll go to Germany myself, Miss Constance, and ask 'em to make me young again.”

Constance smiled. She was running her eyes over the rest of the letter, which was a long one. She caught sight of Arthur's name. There were some loving, gentle messages to him, and then these words: ”Hamish says Arthur applied at Dove and Dove's for a clerk's place, but did not come to terms with them. We are glad that he did not. Papa says he should not like to have one of his boys at Dove and Dove's.”

”And here's a little bit for you, Judith,” Constance said aloud. ”Tell Judith not to be over-anxious in her place of trust; and not to over-work herself, but to let Sarah take her full share. There is no hurry about the bed-furniture; Sarah can do it in an evening at her leisure.”

Judith received the latter portion of the message with scorn. ”'Tisn't me that's going to let her do it! A fine do it would be, Miss Constance! The first thing I shall see, when I go back now, will be her head stretched out at one of the windows, and the kidney beans left to string and cut themselves in the kitchen!”

Judith turned to depart. She never would allow any virtues to her helpmate Sarah, who gave about the same trouble to her that young servants of twenty generally give to old ones. Constance followed her to the door, saying something which had suddenly occurred to her mind about domestic affairs, when who should she meet, coming in, but the Rev. William Yorke! He had just left the Cathedral after morning prayers, and was calling at Lady Augusta's.

Both were confused; both stopped, face to face, in hesitation. Constance grew crimson; Mr. Yorke pale. It was the first time they had met since the parting. There was an angry feeling against Constance in the mind of Mr. Yorke; he considered that she had not treated him with proper confidence; and in his proud nature--the Yorke blood was his--he was content to resent it. He did not expect to lose Constance eventually; he thought that the present storm would blow over some time, and that things would come right again. We are all too much given to trust to that vague ”some time.” In Constance's mind there existed a soreness against Mr. Yorke. He had doubted her; he had accepted (if he had not provoked) too readily her resignation of him. Unlike him, she saw no prospect of the future setting matters right. Marry him, whilst the cloud lay upon Arthur, she would not, after he had intimated his opinion and sentiments: and that cloud could only be lifted at the expense of another.

They exchanged a confused greeting; neither of them conscious how it pa.s.sed. Mr. Yorke's attention was then caught by the open letter in her hand--by the envelope bearing the foreign post-marks. ”How is Mr. Channing?” he asked.

”So much better that it seems little short of a miracle,” replied Constance. ”Mamma says,” glancing at the letter, ”that he can walk, leaning on her arm.”

”I am so glad to hear it! Hamish told me last week that he was improving. I trust it may go on to a cure.”

”Thank you,” replied Constance. And she made him a pretty little state curtsey as she turned away, not choosing to see the hand he would fain have offered her.