Chapter 14. Tom Mackenzie's Bed-Side

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_ CHAPTER XIV. Tom Mackenzie's Bed-Side

There was a Stumfoldian edict, ultra-Median-and-Persian in its strictness, ordaining that no Stumfoldian in Littlebath should be allowed to receive a letter on Sundays. And there also existed a coordinate rule on the part of the Postmaster-General,--or, rather, a privilege granted by that functionary,--in accordance with which Stumfoldians, and other such sects of Sabbatarians, were empowered to prohibit the letter-carriers from contaminating their special knockers on Sunday mornings. Miss Mackenzie had given way to this easily, seeing nothing amiss in the edict, and not caring much for her Sunday letters. In consequence, she received on the Monday mornings those letters which were due to her on Sundays, and on this special Monday morning she received a letter, as to which the delay was of much consequence. It was to tell her that her brother Tom was dying, and to pray that she would be up in London as early on the Monday as was practicable. Mr Samuel Rubb, junior, who had written the letter in Gower Street, had known nothing of the Sabbatical edicts of the Stumfoldians.

"It is an inward tumour," said Mr Rubb, "and has troubled him long, though he has said nothing about it. It is now breaking, and the doctor says he can't live. He begs that you will come to him, as he has very much to say to you. Mrs Tom would have written, but she is so much taken up, and is so much beside herself, that she begs me to say that she is not able; but I hope it won't be less welcome coming from me. The second pair back will be ready for you, just as if it were your own. I would be waiting at the station on Monday, if I knew what train you would come by."

This she received while at breakfast on the Monday morning, having sat down a little earlier than usual, in order that the tea-things might be taken away so as to make room for Mr Maguire.

Of course she must go up to town instantly, by the first practicable train. She perceived at once that she would have to send a message by telegraph, as they would have expected to hear from her that morning. She got the railway guide, and saw that the early express train had already gone. There was, however, a mid-day train which would reach Paddington in the afternoon. She immediately got her bonnet and went off to the telegraph office, leaving word with the servant, that if any one called "he" was to be told that she had received sudden tidings which took her up to London. On her return she found that "he" had not been there yet, and now she could only hope that he would not come till after she had started. It would, of course, be impossible, at such a moment as this, to make any answer to such a proposition as Mr Maguire's.

He came, and when the servant gave him the message at the door, he sent up craving permission to see her but for a moment. She could not refuse him, and went down to him in the drawing-room, with her shawl and bonnet.

"Dearest Margaret," said he, "what is this?" and he took both her hands.

"I have received word that my brother, in London, is very ill,--that he is dying, and I must go to him."

He still held her hands, standing close to her, as though he had some special right to comfort her.

"Cannot I go with you?" he said. "Let me; do let me."

"Oh, no, Mr Maguire; it is impossible. What could you do? I am going to my brother's house."

"But have I not a right to be of help to you at such a time?" he asked.

"No, Mr Maguire; no right; certainly none as yet."

"Oh! Margaret."

"I'm sure you will see that I cannot talk of anything of that sort now."

"But you will not be back for ever so long."

"I cannot tell."

"Oh! Margaret; you will not leave me in suspense? After bidding me wait a fortnight, you will not go away without telling me that you will be mine when you come back? One word will do it."

"Mr Maguire, you really must excuse me now."

"One word, Margaret; only one word," and he still held her.

"Mr Maguire," she said, tearing her hand from him, "I am astonished at you. I tell you that my brother is dying and you hold me here, and expect me to give you an answer about nonsense. I thought you were more manly."

He saw that there was a flash in her eye as he stepped back; so he begged her pardon, and muttering something about hoping to hear from her soon, took his leave. Poor man! I do not see why she should not have accepted him, as she had made up her mind to do so. And to him, with his creditors, and in his present position, any certainty in this matter would have made so much difference!

At the Paddington station Miss Mackenzie was met by her other lover, Mr Rubb. Mr Rubb, however, had never yet declared himself as holding this position, and did not do so on the present occasion. Their conversation in the cab was wholly concerning her brother's state, or nearly so. It seemed that there was no hope. Mr Rubb said that very clearly. As to time the doctor would say nothing certain; but he had declared that it might occur any day. The patient could never leave his bed again; but as his constitution was strong, he might remain in his present condition some weeks. He did not suffer much pain, or, at any rate, did not complain of much; but was very sad. Then Mr Rubb said one other word.

"I am afraid he is thinking of his wife and children."

"Would there be nothing for them out of the business?" asked Miss Mackenzie.

The junior partner at first shook his head, saying nothing. After a few minutes he did speak in a low voice. "If there be anything, it will be very little,--very little."

Miss Mackenzie was rejoiced that she had given no definite promise to Mr Maguire. There seemed to be now a job for her to do in the world which would render it quite unnecessary that she should look about for a husband. If her brother's widow were left penniless, with seven children, there would be no longer much question as to what she would do with her money. Perhaps the only person in the world that she cordially disliked was her sister-in-law. She certainly knew no other woman whose society would be so unpalatable to her. But if things were so as Mr Rubb now described them, there could be no doubt about her duty. It was very well indeed that her answer to Mr Maguire had been postponed to that Monday.

She found her sister-in-law in the dining-room, and Mrs Mackenzie, of course, received her with a shower of tears. "I did think you would have come, Margaret, by the first train."

Then Margaret was forced to explain all about the letter and the Sunday arrangements at Littlebath; and Mrs Tom was stupid and wouldn't understand, but persisted in her grievance, declaring that Tom was killing himself with disappointment.

"And there's Dr Slumpy just this moment gone without a word to comfort one,--not even to say about when it will be. I suppose you'll want your dinner before you go up to see him. As for us we've had no dinners, or anything regular; but, of course, you must be waited on." Miss Mackenzie simply took off her bonnet and shawl, and declared herself ready to go upstairs as soon as her brother would be ready to see her.

"It's fret about money has done it all, Margaret," said the wife. "Since the day that Walter's shocking will was read, he's never been himself for an hour. Of course he wouldn't show it to you; but he never has."

Margaret turned short round upon her sister-in-law on the stairs.

"Sarah," said she, and then she stopped herself. "Never mind; it is natural, no doubt, you should feel it; but there are times and places when one's feelings should be kept under control."

"That's mighty fine," said Mrs Mackenzie; "but, however, if you'll wait here, I'll go up to him."

In a few minutes more Miss Mackenzie was standing by her brother's bedside, holding his hand in hers.

"I knew you would come, Margaret," he said.

"Of course I should come; who doubted it? But never mind that, for here I am."

"I only told her that we expected her by the earlier train," said Mrs Tom.

"Never mind the train as long as she's here," said Tom. "You've heard how it is with me, Margaret?"

Then Margaret buried her face in the bed-clothes and wept, and Mrs Tom, weeping also, hid herself behind the curtains.

There was nothing said then about money or the troubles of the business, and after a while the two women went down to tea. In the dining-room they found Mr Rubb, who seemed to be quite at home in the house. Cold meat was brought up for Margaret's dinner, and they all sat down to one of those sad sick-house meals which he or she who has not known must have been lucky indeed. To Margaret it was nothing new. All the life that she remembered, except the last year, had been spent in nursing her other brother; and now to be employed about the bed-side of a sufferer was as natural to her as the air she breathed.

"I will sit with him to-night, Sarah, if you will let me," she said; and Sarah assented.

It was still daylight when she found herself at her post. Mrs Mackenzie had just left the room to go down among the children, saying that she would return again before she left him for the night. To this the invalid remonstrated, begging his wife to go to bed.

"She has not had her clothes off for the last week," said the husband.

"It don't matter about my clothes," said Mrs Tom, still weeping. She was always crying when in the sick room, and always scolding when out of it; thus complying with the two different requisitions of her nature. The matter, however, was settled by an assurance on her part that she would go to bed, so that she might be stirring early.

There are women who seem to have an absolute pleasure in fixing themselves for business by the bedside of a sick man. They generally commence their operations by laying aside all fictitious feminine charms, and by arraying themselves with a rigid, unconventional, unenticing propriety. Though they are still gentle,--perhaps more gentle than ever in their movements,--there is a decision in all they do very unlike their usual mode of action. The sick man, who is not so sick but what he can ponder on the matter, feels himself to be like a baby, whom he has seen the nurse to take from its cradle, pat on the back, feed, and then return to its little couch, all without undue violence or tyranny, but still with a certain consciousness of omnipotence as far as that child was concerned. The vitality of the man is gone from him, and he, in his prostrate condition, debarred by all the features of his condition from spontaneous exertion, feels himself to be more a woman than the woman herself. She, if she be such a one as our Miss Mackenzie, arranges her bottles with precision; knows exactly how to place her chair, her lamp, and her teapot; settles her cap usefully on her head, and prepares for the night's work certainly with satisfaction. And such are the best women of the world,--among which number I think that Miss Mackenzie has a right to be counted.

A few words of affection were spoken between the brother and sister, for at such moments brotherly affection returns, and the estrangements of life are all forgotten in the old memories. He seemed comforted to feel her hand upon the bed, and was glad to pronounce her name, and spoke to her as though she had been the favourite of the family for years, instead of the one member of it who had been snubbed and disregarded. Poor man, who shall say that there was anything hypocritical or false in this? And yet, undoubtedly, it was the fact that Margaret was now the only wealthy one among them, which had made him send to her, and think of her, as he lay there in his sickness.

When these words of love had been spoken, he turned himself on his pillow, and lay silent for a long while,--for hours, till the morning sun had risen, and the daylight was again seen through the window curtain. It was not much after midsummer, and the daylight came to them early. From time to time she had looked at him, and each hour in the night she had crept round to him, and given him that which he needed. She did it all with a certain system, noiselessly, but with an absolute assurance on her own part that she carried with her an authority sufficient to ensure obedience. On that ground, in that place, I think that even Miss Todd would have succumbed to her.

But when the morning sun had driven the appearance of night from the room, making the paraphernalia of sickness more ghastly than they had been under the light of the lamp, the brother turned himself back again, and began to talk of those things which were weighing on his mind.

"Margaret," he said, "it's very good of you to come, but as to myself, no one's coming can be of any use to me."

"It is all in the hands of God, Tom."

"No doubt, no doubt," said he, sadly, not daring to argue such a point with her, and yet feeling but little consolation from her assurance. "So is the bullock in God's hands when the butcher is going to knock him on the head, but yet we know that the beast will die. Men live and die from natural causes, and not by God's interposition."

"But there is hope; that is what I mean. If God pleases--"

"Ah, well. But, Margaret, I fear that he will not please; and what am I to do about Sarah and the children?"

This was a question that could be answered by no general platitude,--by no weak words of hopeless consolation. Coming from him to her, it demanded either a very substantial answer, or else no answer at all. What was he to do about Sarah and the children? Perhaps there came a thought across her mind that Sarah and the children had done very little for her,--had considered her very little, in those old, weary days, in Arundel Street. And those days were not, as yet, so very old. It was now not much more than twelve months since she had sat by the deathbed of her other brother,--since she had expressed to herself, and to Harry Handcock, a humble wish that she might find herself to be above absolute want.

"I do not think you need fret about that, Tom," she said, after turning these things over in her mind for a minute or two.

"How, not fret about them? But I suppose you know nothing of the state of the business. Has Rubb spoken to you?"

"He did say some word as we came along in the cab."

"What did he say?"

"He said--"

"Well, tell me what he said. He said, that if I died--what then? You must not be afraid of speaking of it openly. Why, Margaret, they have all told me that it must be in a month or two. What did Rubb say?"

"He said that there would be very little coming out of the business--that is, for Sarah and the children--if anything were to happen to you."

"I don't suppose they'd get anything. How it has been managed I don't know. I have worked like a galley slave at it, but I haven't kept the books, and I don't know how things have gone so badly. They have gone badly,--very badly."

"Has it been Mr Rubb's fault?"

"I won't say that; and, indeed, if it has been any man's fault it has been the old man's. I don't want to say a word against the one that you know. Oh, Margaret!"

"Don't fret yourself now, Tom."

"If you had seven children, would not you fret yourself? And I hardly know how to speak to you about it. I know that we have already had ever so much of your money, over two thousand pounds; and I fear you will never see it again."

"Never mind, Tom; it is yours, with all my heart. Only, Tom, as it is so badly wanted, I would rather it was yours than Mr Rubb's. Could I not do something that would make that share of the building yours?"

He shifted himself uneasily in his bed, and made her understand that she had distressed him.

"But perhaps it will be better to say nothing more about that," said she.

"It will be better that you should understand it all. The property belongs nominally to us, but it is mortgaged to the full of its value. Rubb can explain it all, if he will. Your money went to buy it, but other creditors would not be satisfied without security. Ah, dear! it is so dreadful to have to speak of all this in this way."

"Then don't speak of it, Tom."

"But what am I to do?"

"Are there no proceeds from the business?"

"Yes, for those who work in it; and I think there will be something coming out of it for Sarah,--something, but it will be very small. And if so, she must depend for it solely on Mr Rubb."

"On the young one?"

"Yes; on the one that you know."

There was a great deal more said, and of course everyone will know how such a conversation was ended, and will understand with what ample assurance as to her own intentions Margaret promised that the seven children should not want. As she did so, she made certain rapid calculations in her head. She must give up Mr Maguire. There was no doubt about that. She must give up all idea of marrying any one, and, as she thought of this, she told herself that she was perhaps well rid of a trouble. She had already given away to the firm of Rubb and Mackenzie above a hundred a-year out of her income. If she divided the remainder with Mrs Tom, keeping about three hundred and fifty pounds a-year for herself and Susanna, she would, she thought, keep her promise well, and yet retain enough for her own comfort and Susanna's education. It would be bad for the prospects of young John Ball, the third of the name, whom she had taught herself to regard as her heir; but young John Ball would know nothing of the good things he had lost. As to living with her sister-in-law Sarah, and sharing her house and income with the whole family, that she declared to herself nothing should induce her to do. She would give up half of all that she had, and that half would be quite enough to save her brother's children from want. In making the promise to her brother she said nothing about proportions, and nothing as to her own future life. "What I have," she said, "I will share with them and you may rest assured that they shall not want." Of course he thanked her as dying men do thank those who take upon themselves such charges; but she perceived as he did so, or thought that she perceived, that he still had something more upon his mind.

Mrs Tom came and relieved her in the morning, and Miss Mackenzie was obliged to put off for a time that panoply of sick-room armour which made her so indomitable in her brother's bedroom. Downstairs she met Mr Rubb, who talked to her much about her brother's affairs, and much about the oilcloth business, speaking as though he were desirous that the most absolute confidence should exist between him and her. But she said no word of her promise to her brother, except that she declared that the money lent was now to be regarded as a present made by her to him personally.

"I am afraid that that will avail nothing," said Mr Rubb, junior, "for the amount now stands as a debt due by the firm to you, and the firm, which would pay you the money if it could, cannot pay it to your brother's estate any more than it can to yours."

"But the interest," said Miss Mackenzie.

"Oh, yes! the interest can be paid," said Mr Rubb, junior, but the tone of his voice did not give much promise that this interest would be forthcoming with punctuality.

She watched again that night; and on the next day, in the afternoon, she was told that a gentleman wished to see her in the drawing-room. Her thoughts at once pointed to Mr Maguire, and she went downstairs prepared to be very angry with that gentleman. But on entering the room she found her cousin, John Ball. She was, in truth, glad to see him; for, after all, she thought that she liked him the best of all the men or women that she knew. He was always in trouble, but then she fancied that with him she at any rate knew the worst. There was nothing concealed with him,--nothing to be afraid of. She hoped that they might continue to know each other intimately as cousins. Under existing circumstances they could not, of course, be anything more to each other than that.

"This is very kind of you, John," she said, taking his hand. "How did you know I was here?"

"Mr Slow told me. I was with Mr Slow about business of yours. I'm afraid from what I hear that you find your brother very ill."

"Very ill, indeed, John,--ill to death."

She then asked after her uncle and aunt, and the children, at the Cedars.

They were much as usual, he said; and he added that his mother would be very glad to see her at the Cedars; only he supposed there was no hope of that.

"Not just at present, John. You see I am wholly occupied here."

"And will he really die, do you think?"

"The doctors say so."

"And his wife and children--will they be provided for?"

Margaret simply shook her head, and John Ball, as he watched her, felt assured that his uncle Jonathan's money would never come in his way, or in the way of his children. But he was a man used to disappointment, and he bore this with mild sufferance.

Then he explained to her the business about which he had specially come to her. She had entrusted him with certain arrangements as to a portion of her property, and he came to tell her that a certain railway company wanted some houses which belonged to her, and that by Act of Parliament she was obliged to sell them.

"But the Act of Parliament will make the railway company pay for them, won't it, John?"

Then he went on to explain to her that she was in luck's way, "as usual," said the poor fellow, thinking of his own misfortunes, and that she would greatly increase her income by the sale. Indeed, it seemed to her that she would regain pretty nearly all she had lost by the loan to Rubb and Mackenzie. "How very singular," thought she to herself. Under these circumstances, it might, after all, be possible that she should marry Mr Maguire, if she wished it.

When Mr Ball had told his business he did not stay much longer. He said no word of his own hopes, if hopes they could be called any longer. As he left her, he just referred to what had passed between them. "This is no time, Margaret," said he, "to ask you whether you have changed your mind?"

"No, John; there are other things to think of now; are there not? And, besides, they will want here all that I can do for them."

She spoke to him with an express conviction that what was wanted of her by him, as well as by others, was her money, and it did not occur to him to contradict her.

"He might have asked to see me, I do think," said Mrs Tom, when John Ball was gone. "But there always was an upsetting pride about those people at the Cedars which I never could endure. And they are as poor as church mice. When poverty and pride go together I do detest them. I suppose he came to find out all about us, but I hope you told him nothing."

To all this Miss Mackenzie made no answer at all. _

Read next: Chapter 15. The Tearing Of The Verses

Read previous: Chapter 13. Mr Maguire's Courtship

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