“Going to die. Nothing can save him. All hope flung overboard!”
She put her veil aside. She looked into his eyes, and said, “To die!”
“To die. All along of the women, my mother and the rest. They did something about his bandages that finished everything. He would have got better but for them. I am sure they should be arrested, cribbed, tried, and brought in for Botany Bay, at the very least.”
The questioner, perhaps, did nor hear this judgment. She stood motionless. In two minutes, without another word, she moved forwards; no good night, no further inquiry. This was not amusing, nor what Martin had calculated on. He expected something dramatic and demonstrative. It was hardly worth while to frighten the girl if she would not entertain him in return. He called, “Miss Helstone!”
She did not hear or turn. He hastened after and overtook her.
“Come; are you uneasy about what I said?”
“You know nothing about death, Martin; you are too young for me to talk to concerning such a thing.”
“Did you believe me? It’s all flummery! Moore eats like three men. They are always making sago or tapioca or something good for him. I never go into the kitchen but there is a saucepan on the fire, cooking him some dainty. I think I will play the old soldier, and be fed on the fat of the land like him.”
“Martin! Martin!” Here her voice trembled, and she stopped.
“It is exceedingly wrong of you, Martin. You have almost killed me.”
Again she stopped. She leaned against a tree, trembling, shuddering, and as pale as death.
Martin contemplated her with inexpressible curiosity. In one sense it was, as he would have expressed it, “nuts” to him to see this. It told him so much, and he was beginning to have a great relish for discovering secrets. In another sense it reminded him of what he had once felt when he had heard a blackbird lamenting for her nestlings, which Matthew had crushed with a stone, and that was not a pleasant feeling. Unable to find anything very appropriate to say in order to comfort her, he began to cast about in his mind what he could do. He smiled. The lad’s smile gave wondrous transparency to his physiognomy.
“Eureka!” he cried. “I’ll set all straight by-and-by. You are better now, Miss Caroline. Walk forward,” he urged.
Not reflecting that it would be more difficult for Miss Helstone than for himself to climb a wall or penetrate a hedge, he piloted her by a shortcut which led to no gate. The consequence was he had to help her over some formidable obstacles, and while he railed at her for helplessness, he perfectly liked to feel himself of use.
“Martin, before we separate, assure me seriously, and on your word of honour, that Mr. Moore is better.”
“How very much you think of that Moore!”
“No—but—many of his friends may ask me, and I wish to be able to give an authentic answer.”
“You may tell them he is well enough, only idle. You may tell them that he takes mutton chops for dinner, and the best of arrowroot for supper. I intercepted a basin myself one night on its way upstairs, and ate half of it.”
“And who waits on him, Martin? who nurses him?”
“Nurses him? The great baby! Why, a woman as round and big as our largest water-butt—a rough, hard-favoured old girl. I make no doubt she leads him a rich life. Nobody else is let near him. He is chiefly in the dark. It is my belief she knocks him about terribly in that chamber. I listen at the wall sometimes when I am in bed, and I think I hear her thumping him. You should see her fist. She could hold half a dozen hands like yours in her one palm. After all, notwithstanding the chops and jellies he gets, I would not be in his shoes. In fact, it is my private opinion that she eats most of what goes up on the tray to Mr. Moore. I wish she may not be starving him.”
Profound silence and meditation on Caroline’s part, and a sly watchfulness on Martin’s.
“You never see him, I suppose, Martin?”
“I? No. I don’t care to see him, for my own part.”
Silence again.
“Did not you come to our house once with Mrs. Pryor, about five weeks since, to ask after him?” again inquired Martin.
“Yes.”
“I dare say you wished to be shown upstairs?”
“We did wish it. We entreated it; but your mother declined.”
“Ay! she declined. I heard it all. She treated you as it is her pleasure to treat visitors now and then. She behaved to you rudely and harshly.”
“She was not kind; for you know, Martin, we are relations, and it is natural we should take an interest in Mr. Moore. But here we must part; we are at your father’s gate.”
“Very well, what of that? I shall walk home with you.”
“They will miss you, and wonder where you are.”
“Let them. I can take care of myself, I suppose.”
Martin knew that he had already incurred the penalty of a lecture, and dry bread for his tea. No matter; the evening had furnished him with an adventure. It was better than muffins and toast.
He walked home with Caroline. On the way he promised to see Mr. Moore, in spite of the dragon who guarded his chamber, and appointed an hour on the next day when Caroline was to come to Briarmains Wood and get tidings of him. He would meet her at a certain tree. The scheme led to nothing; still he liked it.
Having reached home, the dry bread and the lecture were duly administered to him, and he was dismissed to bed at an early hour. He accepted his punishment with the toughest stoicism.
Ere ascending to his chamber he paid a secret visit to the dining-room, a still, cold, stately apartment, seldom used, for the family customarily dined in the back parlour. He stood before the mantelpiece, and lifted his
