Chapter V

Having safely housed our unhappy girl in the house of the worthy physician, we may perhaps be permitted to cast our eyes towards the gay widow and her sensitive sister, who, truth to be told, were suffering as much in _their_ way as our more humble friend from Walworth.

Mrs. Dallington, whose perception was remarkably clear, and whose judgment was particularly sound, had for some time been fully aware of the state of Sir Charles Lydiard’s heart and mind--for his mind and his heart were waging a perpetual war with each other; nor, however solicitous she might be (I admit that supposition merely for argument’s sake) to bring their acquaintance to a happy termination, did she entirely regret the caution and consideration with which, it was so evident, the fastidious baronet bent his steps towards the hymeneal altar. She felt assured that, if he judged her rightly and fairly, she should eventually possess his entire affection; and she also felt, that to obtain it after such a scrutiny, would be to secure it for the rest of her life.

It must be allowed that she sometimes thought he had considered and examined and scrutinized quite long enough, and believed that the time had arrived when she should have an opportunity of saying yea or nay, as the case might be; but, whenever the crisis seemed at hand, some new doubt, some new apprehension, appeared to be conjured up, the bright vision was dissipated, and she remained still the expecting, disappointed Mrs. Dallington.

Blanche, on the other hand, received a proposal from Rushton almost every day in the week--if at least the most violent protestations of love and devotion might be so construed; but the _brusquerie_ of his character evinced itself so perpetually, that the chances were, that the evening of the brightest day ended in a storm. Blanche was quite aware of the disposition she had to deal with; and although flurried and fluttered by her lover’s extraordinary animation and vivacity, she resolved not to surrender her hand, whatever might be the fate of her heart, until she was convinced that her hero was calmed into a fit state for domestication. In point of fact, Rushton was quite as jealous of Blanche as Lydiard was of her sister; but his jealousy was of a different caste: he smiled, frowned, laughed, scolded, and did ten thousand unaccountable things, just as he was acted upon by passing events, while Lydiard never suffered himself to be betrayed into any external evidence of what occupied his mind: and thus the pair of lovers continued to make themselves as uncomfortable as they made those, whom upon all essential points were devotedly their own.

Affairs were in this delicate position when Brag, who was encouraged in all his absurdities by his noble friend Lord Tom, partly to gratify his vanity, and so secure his aid, if required, upon emergencies, and partly to afford sport to his lordship’s friends, opened his heart in a kind of hypothetical way to the young lord with regard to the widow and her sister, to which train of thought he had been led by the conversation he had previously had with Rushton in the street.

“I don’t see,” said Jack, “why--I--shouldn’t do as well as my neighbours, in the matrimonial line. I look on, at others who play at courting with wonder; they seem to me to make no move. Now there’s Sir Charles Lydiard and the widow--they don’t care a fig for each other, and yet they are to be married, as the world says. As for Blanche, she seems to me to care as little for Rushton. Why, hang it! if I wanted to marry either of them, it would not be a week’s work. No, no!--faint heart--eh! you know. I’d just make either of them buckle to, in half the time, and no mistake.”

“Have you ever thought of such a thing, Jack?” said Lord Tom, who, piqued by the coldness with which the widow had always received him, felt by no means ill-disposed to encourage his tiger in any scheme likely to make a commotion in the family.

“Why,” said Jack, “I can’t say that I have; but I--of course, I dare say it means no more than what I always meet with--but I _have_ thought that there was something uncommon odd about the widow’s eyes.”

“Indeed!” said Lord Tom,--“and very handsome eyes they are too: besides, Jack, she is rich, and what they call in the city ‘well to do.’”

“Mum!” said Jack--“know her fortune to a fraction: didn’t overlook that in the calculation.”

“Oh!” said his lordship--“then you _have_ been thinking rather seriously upon the subject.”

“Not seriously,” replied the tiger, “only I was considering that Sir Charles is what I call losing time--waiting upon her too long, as we should say at Epsom. It would be a good match,--not that I care for money--no more than my father did. Did I ever tell you of my governor and his hundred-pound note?”

“Not that I recollect,” said his lordship, although he did.

“Why, _my_ father,” said Jack, “was one day walking along the Strand, when, just as he came by the end of Buckingham Street, a fellow picked his pocket of his pocket-book, full of memorandums, letters, and other papers, “of no use but to the owner,” and a hundred pound note besides. What d’ye think he did, as soon as he found out his loss?”

“Went to Bow Street, perhaps,” said Lord Tom.

“No.”

“Stepped to the Bank and stopped it.”

“Couldn’t--didn’t know the number.”

“Caught the thief, then.”

“No,” said Jack, “not a bit of it. The minute he found he had lost it, he went home and got another.”

“In order to have it stolen like the former,” said Lord Tom.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Jack; “just to show how little he cared about money. So with _me_; I don’t care for money, except as it buys money’s worth. What’s a guinea in a box?--not better than a brass button in a bag. But still one cannot marry without the stumpy.”

“Then try the widow,” said Lord Tom; “you have my full permission--only don’t quote me as authority. You will drive Sir Charles either into a proposal or the Serpentine river; so at all events something will come of it.”

“But, my lord,” said Jack, “since we _have_ touched upon this matter, I will be candid. I have just said I don’t value money; but, if it weren’t for the fortune, I would rather marry the sister.”

“And has _she_ been kind too,” said Lord Tom.

“Why,” said Jack, simpering, and affecting to look modest, “I can’t say kind--uncommon goodnatured--and--laughs--and all that: and I have heard a long-headed old fellow, who knows the sex, say, that if you can once make a grave female laugh, the day is your own.”

“Provided always,” said his lordship, “that she laughs _with_ and not _at_ you; the difference is surprisingly great.”

“Oh! Blanche is no ways whatsoever satirical,” said the tallow chandler:--“and, hang me! if I was asked, I should say there wasn’t a pin to choose between them.”

“Take my advice, Jack,” said the mischievous lordling--“try them both. Manage your matters well--lead them both on--there is no chance of their confiding in each other, because as they are both supposed to be engaged, neither would choose to trust the other with any proof of her infidelity.”

“Shall I write to the widow,” said Jack, “and talk to the sister”--

“Write, man! are you mad?” said Lord Tom. “Never write--that _would_ be a pretty affair. Who knows how notes may miscarry--how writing-desks may be left open, or if not, be broken open? Besides, they might, upon so strange a proceeding as that, compare notes, and what a pretty mess you would be in then! No; sound them--try them--get them apart, and ascertain the extent of their interest in you.”

Brag listened to all this advice of his noble friend, believing it to be given _de bonne foi_; and although there appeared difficulties in the delicate process which his lordship suggested, and which, by a mind like Brag’s, were not perfectly easy to be surmounted, he thought he comprehended the general tenor of his instructions, which had for its object his making himself uncommonly agreeable to both parties.

“Lead Blanche on,” said Lord Tom, “by a course of negative officiousness; be always near her, devoted and unaffected. Let her fall into friendship; sympathize with her in all her feelings, agree in all her opinions--but never seem to do so with any defined object: thus in a fortnight or three weeks you will obtain her confidence. She will be convinced you esteem her and value her, and are anxious for her comfort and happiness; then she’ll grow kind and familiar, and, thrown off her guard by your respectful behaviour, will begin to evince an undisguised wish for your society. She will at last feel that you are somehow, she can scarcely tell how, essential to her happiness, and when you have got her into this blessed state of amiability, off with your disguise of friendship, like the hero of a tragedy, and profess yourself her lover. Then”--

“Ay, ay,” interrupted Jack, “that’s all very well, my dear lord, and a very pretty month’s amusement it would be, to do all you prescribe: but, then, what will Frank Rushton be about to let me? He’s as fiery as a dragon, and as jealous as old Nick. No, no, whatever is done, must be done clean, off-hand, smack smooth, and no mistake.”

“Then,” said Lord Tom, “if that’s your principle, you had better take a shot at the widow; she’s not so likely to be flurried by a hurry; and, besides, your activity will form such a striking contrast to the respectable icicle now hanging about her, that you will in all probability carry the day by a _coup de main_.”

“Just after my own heart,” said Jack; “by Job! I’ll have a shy at her.”

“Do,” said his lordship, “and when you are installed in the town-house and family mansion in the west or north, or wherever it is, make yourself agreeable; fill your house with your friends, and let us be jolly.”

“We’ll live like fighting cocks,” said Jack, “you only just see. I’ll do it regular; there sha’nt be a fellow in the king’s dominions who shall beat me.”

“Success attend you, Jack!” said his lordship, “but don’t forget Thursday.”

“I’ll be punctual to the minute,” said Jack; “my watch is a regular-built chronometer. You shall find me at the starting-post, all right, and no mistake.”

And so the friends parted, Brag having not the slightest intention of ever risking a second visit to Wrigglesford, or a second attempt to trespass on the surly farmer’s grounds, who had threatened him for his former proceeding; and moreover being resolved to devote the next few days to the achievement of one of the beauties, of both of whom he was convinced, in his small mind, he was a regularly established favourite.

Meanwhile we must not forget poor Anne Brown, whom we left under the care of the physician’s housekeeper, and who, when she recovered from the agitation which kept her senseless for some hours, found herself with her head reclining upon the arm of that highly respectable functionary.

It would require a much greater space than I am permitted in this hasty narrative, to describe the excellent qualities of Dr. Mead, the eminent and able practitioner to whom the anxious daughter had prevailed upon herself to apply for advice and assistance; but it is absolutely necessary that the reader should be made acquainted to a certain extent with the attributes of his character, even beyond the pale of his profession, the exercise of which seemed rather the fruit of a desire to do good to others, than of any venal feeling of self-aggrandizement.

Although there exists no documentary evidence to prove his descent from the eminent physician of the same name, it seems not entirely improbable that the fortuitous circumstance of a similarity of patronymic and profession might have conduced almost unconsciously to a similarity of feeling and disposition between them. Matthew Mead, the father of the famous doctor, was a nonconforming divine: our Dr. Mead’s father was an orthodox clergyman. If the famous Mead married early, our Mead was yet single; and whatever turn he might have had for the fine arts, or whatever veneration he entertained for their professors, his means, although fully adequate to the maintenance of a highly respectable establishment and equipage, were not yet sufficiently extensive to emulate his namesake as a patron or protector. Still, his income might have been much larger, had he not upon every occasion where, by a benevolent curiosity, he discovered the slenderness of a patient’s means, forborne to accept the fees which from the rich and great he did not hesitate to accept, and which his spreading fame and rising reputation produced in very considerable numbers.

In his manners mild and soothing, in his conversation unaffected and intelligent, his study appeared to be to “minister to the mind diseased,” as well as to the body; and his approach to the sick chamber was hailed by the watchful invalid rather as a relief from pain and suffering in itself, than as the mere business visit of a professional man, coming in the ordinary routine of duty to enquire and prescribe.

With feelings and a disposition like this, the benevolence of his heart beaming in his countenance, and the sympathy which he felt for sorrow and sadness expressed in language the most gentle and in a tone the most harmonious, it is not surprising that Dr. Mead should have speedily reassured poor Anne, to whom, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered to be conscious of her situation, he was summoned by the housekeeper, and whom he was greatly surprised, upon inquiry, to find not a patient, but merely the emissary from one who sought his advice.

It was in a moment evident to his searching eye, that the agitation under which she had been suffering, and from which she was not yet quite recovered, must have had its origin in some more sudden event, and one of more recent occurrence than the illness of her mother: he resolved to question her upon the point; but a recurrence of all the worst symptoms induced him to forego any further search into a matter, in fact, disconnected with the object of her visit to his house.

That object was immediately attained. The excellent man ordered his carriage to be got ready instantly, and directed the housekeeper, who had been in attendance on Anne, to accompany her to her mother’s house, and to return home with the carriage, telling her that he would himself, having called upon one or two patients in his immediate neighbourhood on foot, proceed to visit his new patient at a later hour; giving as a reason for this proceeding the absolute necessity of his seeing those persons before his departure for Walworth, and the probable anxiety of Mrs. Brown for the safety of her daughter, if she should delay her return until he should be able to accompany her.

To some practitioners, this delicacy on the part of our doctor might appear somewhat too refined, the obvious mode of proceeding being, to have handed the young lady into the carriage, and driven with her to her mother’s residence; but Mead felt otherwise. He had odd notions upon many points; and beyond what he considered the main object of this arrangement, the fact, that an entirely unexpected visit from a stranger might not altogether suit the convenience of an establishment so confined as that of Mrs. Brown’s, did not slip his regard or consideration.

When Anne reached home, she had a hard part to play. The anxiety she felt for her mother; the pang she received when she saw the sunken eye of her beloved parent fixed--not tearless--on her returned child, filled with a half-sanguine, half-hopeless expression, and heard her breathing heavily, made her heart ache to its very centre. Filled with gratitude to their expected benefactor, she endeavoured to explain to her suffering mother the extent of his kindness and consideration, while the recollection of the callous barbarity of the man she had once loved, and whom she believed to have loved _her_, wrung her to the very soul.

That she was indignant at the treatment she had experienced, who shall doubt?--but who, that knows woman, will doubt either that in the heart where Love has once dwelt, the very memory of his presence there, will extenuate the fault which should make the object hateful.

This generous, gentle feeling turned all the force of the indignation which ought to have been directed against the paltry pretender himself, towards his associates, to whose baleful influence Anne entirely attributed the astounding change which had taken place in his manners. Even the neglect of her letter was laid to the same account; but yet what made the wound he had inflicted rankle the more, was the impossibility at the present juncture of risking her mother’s tranquillity--perhaps existence, by telling her what had occurred, or of accounting for her lengthened absence by explaining the cause of the indisposition to which it was attributable.

In less than two hours after Anne’s return the doctor, true to his promise, arrived. It is scarcely possible to describe her feelings as he entered the room where her mother lay; it seemed as if Hope had revived in her breast--that there was somebody who felt an interest for them. She drew back from the bed-side, and hid her face in her hands to conceal her emotion: she cried like a child, and tears again were a relief to her aching heart.

The kind doctor’s questions to Mrs. Brown were few: the case needed little enquiry--it was a sinking of nature, caused, as it seemed to him, less by bodily ills than mental affliction, and considerably accelerated by the want of proper air, and, he almost feared, nourishment. He wrote a prescription, rather however as a matter of form, satisfactory to the patient, than with any view of the success of medicine, and then, having taken leave of his patient, beckoned Anne to follow him from the apartment.

“Your mother must be removed as soon as she can bear the fatigue,” said the doctor. “Change of air and diet are absolutely necessary.”

Anne heard the fiat in silence, and again tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I should think,” continued Dr. Mead, “that with care and a proper regimen the removal might be effected in four or five days.”

Still Anne remained silent and trembling, her eyes cast down upon the ground.

“You should contrive to amuse her mind,” said the doctor; “she should not refuse to see her friends.”

“God help us!” sobbed Anne, unable longer to conceal her agitation,--“we have no friends! What is to be done, Heaven knows! She must be moved; your kind directions shall be obeyed, sir;--I”--

“My dear young lady,” said Mead, “you wrong yourself, and _me_, when you say you have no friends. In _me_ you have a friend. Rely on Providence, and never despair:--friends will always be raised up for confiding piety, for suffering virtue, and for filial duty in distress. I will not indelicately press my enquiries, but you must permit me to act upon my own advice. _I_ am the friend your mother must admit. I will call here to-morrow; and I think, without putting either of you to much inconvenience, I can secure you a comfortable residence in a worthy and respectable family, in a desirable climate. _I_ must manage all this; and perhaps I may be able, at no distant period, to give you and your mother a good reason why she need not feel herself under any serious obligation to me:--upon this point I will not trouble you to-day,--you have had worry and agitation enough. Keep yourself calm and quiet; cheer your mother’s hopes--there is no fear of a dangerous result; upon that point I will stake my reputation. Let her have the medicine I have written for, and to-morrow, by one, I shall see you again.”

Saying which, he shook hands with the grateful Anne, and proceeded to his carriage.

At no period of our lives does kindness so powerfully affect us as when it comes immediately after we have received some cruel blow. The affectionate tone and spirit of the doctor’s consolatory address struck to Anne’s heart, and she returned to her mother, blessing God who had raised up such a help to them in the hour of gloom and adversity.

The doctor’s benevolence did not stop here, even for the day. In the evening, whilst Anne was preparing the best refreshment she could contrive to procure with but slender means of purchase and small skill in cookery, the housekeeper of the excellent doctor arrived, bringing with her, sundry little delicacies, and some wine which her master “had taken the liberty of sending, because by experience he knew its soundness and excellence of quality, and was therefore sure it would be serviceable to his patient in her particular case;” in short, every comfort was secured to her that sympathy could suggest or art provide; and, as Anne herself said, the very feelings which such attentions inspired, contributed of themselves materially to exhilarate and revive her poor mother, whose bodily ailments, as Mead had surmised, were painfully aggravated by mental depression.

And yet, grateful to Providence as Anne was, with a heart overflowing with thankfulness to the generous, noble-minded man who in a few hours had converted a house of mourning into a house of hope, if not of happiness,--when she laid her head upon the pillow near her mother, who slept tranquilly, her first thoughts were of that unworthy being by whom she had been first insulted and then repudiated even as a common acquaintance, in the street that morning.

It seemed like a dream to her even then. Prepared as she must have been, and indeed had told him she was, eternally to resign any claim of a tender nature upon his heart, she could not bear the thought of being spurned by the man for whom she had permitted herself not only to feel, but admit that she felt, an affection. That she had not deserved such usage was self-evident, and that she should receive it particularly after her last appeal, was galling and distracting beyond endurance. Little did she think how perfectly disconnected with that appeal his conduct was, or suspect how he had treated her last letter.

These thoughts, and those of early days, were naturally blended in her mind with the memory of her brother George, whose long silence was another source of anxiety and agitation; nor could she forget, besides the tenderer ties to John, the closeness of their connexion by George’s marriage. If George had been at home, thought Anne, he would not have behaved so--but George too has forgotten us. All those who once were dear to us, and we to them, are gone! and we are helped and comforted by the stranger upon whom we have no claim, and who has no tie to us but his own benevolence.

In the morning, Mrs. Brown awoke after a refreshing sleep, very much better than even her watchful daughter could have hoped. It was but too evident that the physician had rightly decided on the character of her complaint, and the absolute necessity of a change of regimen in the first instance, to be followed up by a removal from the close atmosphere of a small room in a gas-lighted suburban village to a purer air. Indeed, so very much better did her mother appear, that Anne repeated to her the verbal prescription of the doctor, adding the proposal he had made of providing them with a comfortable residence in a family known to himself.

For three days did Dr. Mead continue his visits punctually, bringing with him upon each occasion some little luxury prepared for use, under the plea that he was most anxious his patient’s food should be dressed according to rule, and that he could not be satisfied unless his own servants were the operators, under his own immediate direction. At the expiration of a week he pronounced her capable of bearing the fatigue of removal; and on the following Saturday evening Mrs. Brown and her daughter found themselves established in a delightful cottage surrounded by gardens and fields, within four miles of town, the master and mistress of which appeared the devoted servants of the worthy doctor, and vied with each other in showing attention and courtesy to their new inmates.

With returning health, there arose in Mrs. Brown’s mind an irresistible feeling of embarrassment connected with her present situation. She found herself and her daughter placed in a position of ease and comfort, with the consciousness hanging over her that she was incapable of affording the luxuries which she was enjoying, and a sensitive unwillingness either to trespass upon the kindness of their benefactor, or if that kindness were merely limited to the recommendation of their new residence, equally anxious not to involve herself in expenses which she was aware that she could not defray.

The doctor’s hours of visiting his patient were different from those which he had fixed before their removal. He came in the evenings, partook of their tea, and sat longer and stayed later each evening that he came--and so a week wore away--and yet Mrs. Brown had not the courage to put those questions which she had resolved somehow to ask, and to which her medical friend’s conduct certainly did not appear likely to afford any practical solution; for when he congratulated her upon the improvement of her health, he alluded to a trial of some new medicine, about the effects of which upon her constitution he was very sanguine, and which he should begin with, in “a week or two.”

The words had scarce passed his lips, when the eyes of mother and daughter met, not unseen by the doctor, who immediately added to what he had already said:--“Perhaps you may be of opinion that in that time you will have no need of any medicine at all.”

This seemed to be an occasion which Mrs. Brown might seize, of coming to an explanation of her feelings, and she availed herself of it accordingly; and, difficult as was the task to perform, she contrived to make the doctor understand the delicacy of her position, and the apprehensions under which she laboured.

“My dear madam,” said Mead, “I am delighted that you have given me an opportunity of speaking upon this matter. As the worthy people of this house can tell you, or may perhaps have told you, you are not the first patient I have recommended to their care; and that when such an event happens, I consider them my guests during their residence here. In _your_ case, however, there are circumstances very different from those which occur in many others, as far as I am concerned:--you have, naturally enough, forgotten _me_; but we have met before the occasion upon which I recently visited you.”

“Indeed!” said the lady, somewhat incredulously.

“Indeed,” replied the physician, “I have dined in your house, madam, more than once. I was not aware of this fact when first I called on you, but circumstances and coincidences led me to institute an enquiry, and I found in _you_, madam, the widow of the man to whom I may, without exaggeration, attribute my success in life, and the place I now hold in society and my profession.”

“You surprise me exceedingly,” said Mrs. Brown.

“It is now more than four-and-twenty years since,” said Dr. Mead, “that I was recommended to the notice of Mr. Brown by a friend of his and a connexion of mine, then living at Bristol; and upon my arrival in London I was, in consequence of that introduction, invited to your house, where, as I have already said, I dined more than once. But it was not by mere commonplace hospitality that Mr. Brown proved the warmth and sincerity of his feelings towards me. Upon one occasion, when an opportunity presented itself--in all human probability the deciding opportunity of my life for furthering my professional views--a sum of money was necessary to the accomplishment of my wishes, of which I was not possessed. Had not Mr. Brown at that time generously assisted me, I must have relinquished the object I had in view, the realization of which, proved, as I have already said, the foundation of my fortunes. I have now, I think, said sufficient to overcome all your scruples with regard to my present conduct; and I only rejoice that the opportunity is afforded me of proving to you and this dear young lady, that there is still in the world such a sentiment as Gratitude.”

“This is most extraordinary!” said Anne.

“For several years,” continued Dr. Mead, “after my return from the Continent, I endeavoured to find out the widow of my benefactor, but without success, and I look upon that as one of the most fortunate hours of my life in which the suffering daughter of my first friend came to require my assistance, attracted to me by a reputation which her father had so materially contributed to establish. Now,” added he, “you may look on me with feelings far different from those which have hitherto occupied your hearts and minds:--in me you see only the _protegé_ endeavouring as much as in his power lies, to evince his thankfulness where it is so justly due.”

“What are we to say to you?” said the agitated parent.

“Nothing, nothing,” interrupted Mead. “Permit me to continue my visits, now, luckily not rendered professionally necessary. Let me entreat you to remain where you are, and allow me, whenever I can, to come hither and enjoy in your society, and that of your exemplary daughter, a repose after the hurries and worries of a London life, which I have long but vainly sought.”

Nobody can doubt what, under the circumstances, was the course Mrs. Brown pursued, although, it must be confessed, that she even then, had her doubts as to the truth of the doctor’s narrative; regarding the statement of his obligations to her husband, and his consequent success in life, rather as the fruits of an inventive faculty, exerted in order to overcome her scruples and satisfy her delicacy, than as a matter-of-fact bit of history.

Of herself, she had not the slightest recollection of the name of her new old friend in the catalogue of visiters at her house; nor could she recall to her mind the personal appearance of any guest at her husband’s hospitable board which bore a resemblance to the doctor. A quarter of a century had elapsed, and the tallow-faced pupil of the hospitals had grown into the mellow-tinted arbiter of the mortal destinies of men; and if the doctor had been sufficiently ungallant (which doctors never are) to have made an ample confession on _his_ part, it is quite certain he must have said, that he found not in the sinking widow whom he had restored, any remains of the charms and attractions which had in his early days characterized the gay and dashing wife.

Poor Brown however had, in the zenith of his career, been as hospitable as a Madeira merchant, and was wont to welcome to his table men of all trades and nations, all callings and professions. He held it to be part of his business to cement connexions by social intercourse, and therefore while he kept in fact, open house, it was morally impossible for his lady, who was not much interested in the casual guests “below the salt,” to recollect all their names or persons. Still she could hardly divest herself of the idea that the doctor’s history was a soothing fiction; although her daughter, whose opinion of the said doctor was somehow more favourable than that of her parent, declared her conviction that he was much too honourable, too candid, and too sincere, to endeavour to carry even a favourite point by deception or misrepresentation.

How this paragon of physicians turned out in the wearing, we may perhaps live to see.