Works of Ellen Wood, page 209
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, in the uncontrollable impulse of the moment, “if I could only regain health and strength!”
“It will come, James; God willing,” said Mrs. Channing, looking up hopefully from the cups she was filling. “What I have heard of Dr. Lamb’s restoration has put new confidence into me.”
“I think Mr. Yorke intends to bring Dr. Lamb to see you this afternoon, papa,” said Constance.
“I shall be glad to see him; I shall be glad to hear the particulars of his case and its cure,” exclaimed Mr. Channing, with all conscious eagerness. “Did Mr. Yorke tell you he should bring him to-day, Constance?”
“Yes, papa. Dr. Lamb intends to be at the cathedral for afternoon service, and Mr. Yorke said he would bring him here afterwards.”
“You must get him to take tea with us, Mary.”
“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Channing. “In six months from this, James, you may be as well and active as ever.”
Mr. Channing raised his hands, as if warding off the words. Not of the words was he afraid, but of the hopes they whispered. “I think too much about it, already, Mary. It is not as though I were sure of getting to the medicinal baths.”
“We will take care that you do that, sir,” said Hamish, with his sunny smile.
“You cannot help in it, you know, Hamish,” interposed saucy Annabel. “It will be Arthur and Constance who will help — not you. I heard you say so!”
“But I have changed my mind, and intend to help,” returned Hamish. “And, if you will allow me the remark, young lady, I think it would better become a certain little girl, not to chatter quite so much!”
Was Hamish speaking in jest, or earnest, with regard to the helping point of the affair? A peculiar tone in his voice, in spite of its lightness, had struck both Constance and Arthur, each being in the secret of his more than want of funds.
The second bell was beginning to chime as the Channings entered the cloister gates. Tom and Charles had gone on before. Panting, breathless, almost knocking down Annabel, came Tod Yorke, terribly afraid of being marked late.
“Take care, Tod!” exclaimed Hamish. “Are you running for a wager?”
“Don’t keep me, Mr. Hamish Channing! Those incapable servants of ours never called us till the bell began. I have had no breakfast, and Gerald couldn’t find his shirt. He has had to come off in his dirty one, with his waistcoat buttoned up. Won’t my lady be in a rage when she sees him?”
Getting up and breakfasting were generally bustling affairs at Lady Augusta’s; but the confusion of every day was as nothing compared with that of Sunday. Master Tod was wrong when he complained that he had not been called. The servants had called both him and Gerald, who shared the same room, but the young gentlemen had gone to sleep again. The breakfast hour was the same as other mornings, nine o’clock; but, for all the observance it obtained, it might as well have been nine at night. To give the servants their due, breakfast, on this morning, was on the table at nine — that is, the cloth, the cups and saucers: and there it remained until ten. The maids meanwhile enjoyed their own leisurely breakfast in the kitchen, regaling themselves with hot coffee, poached eggs, buttered toast, and a dish of gossip. At ten, Lady Augusta, who made a merit of always rising to breakfast on a Sunday, entered the breakfast-room in a dirty morning wrapper, and rang the bell.
“Is nobody down?” cried she, sharply.
“I think not, my lady,” was Martha’s reply. “I have not heard them. I have been three times in the young ladies’ room, but they would not get up.”
This was not quite true. Martha had been in once, and had been scolded for her pains. “None of them ever will get up on a Sunday morning,” added Martha; “they say, ‘where’s the good?’”
“Bring in breakfast,” crossly responded Lady Augusta. “And then go to the young ladies, and see whether the rest are getting up. What has the cook been at with this coffee?” Lady Augusta added, when she began to pour it out. “It is cold. Her coffee is always cold.”
“It has been made half an hour, I know, my lady.”
The first to appear was the youngest child of all, little Frank; the next his brother, a year older; they wore dirty collars, and their hair was uncombed. Then came the girls — Caroline without a frock, a shawl thrown on, instead, and Fanny in curl papers. Lady Augusta scolded them for their late appearance, forgetting, possibly, that she herself set the example.
“It is not much past ten,” said Caroline. “We shall be in time for college.”
“It is nearly upon half-past,” replied Lady Augusta. “Why do you come down in a petticoat, Caroline?”
“That stupid dressmaker has put no tape to my dress,” fretfully responded Caroline. “Martha is sewing it on.”
Roland lounged in, not more presentable than the rest. Why had Lady Augusta not brought them up to better habits? Why should they come down on a Sunday morning more untidy than on other mornings? They would have told you, had you asked the question, that on other mornings they must be ready to hasten to their daily occupations. Had Sunday no occupation, then? Did it deserve no marked deference? Had I been Lady Augusta Yorke, I should have said to Roland that morning, when I saw his slip-shod slippers and his collarless neck, “If you can show no respect for me, show it for the day.”
Half-past ten struck, and Lady Augusta started up to fly to her own room. She had still much to do, ere she could be presentable for college. Caroline followed. Fanny wondered what Gerald and Tod would do. Not yet down!
“Those boys will get a tanning, to-morrow, from old Pye!” exclaimed Roland, remembering the time when “tannings” had been his portion for the same fault. “Go and see what they are after, Martha.”
They were “after” jumping up in alarm, aroused by the college bell. Amidst wild confusion, for nothing seemed to be at hand, with harsh reproaches to Martha, touching their shirts and socks, and other articles of attire, they scrambled downstairs, somehow, and flew out of the house on their way to the college schoolroom; Gerald drinking a freshly made scalding cup of coffee; Tod cramming a thick piece of bread and butter into his pocket, and trusting to some spare moment to eat it in. All this was the usual scramble of Sunday morning. The Yorkes did get to college, somehow, and there was an end of it.
After the conclusion of the service, as the congregation were dispersing, Mr. Galloway came up to Arthur Channing in the cloisters, and drew him aside.
“Do you recollect taking the letters to the post, on Friday afternoon?” he inquired.
“On Friday?” mused Arthur, who could not at the moment recollect much about that particular day’s letters; it was he who generally posted them for the office. “Oh yes, I do remember, sir,” he replied, as the relative circumstances flashed across him.
Mr. Galloway looked at him, possibly doubting whether he really did remember. “How many letters were there for the post that afternoon?” he asked.
“Three,” promptly rejoined Arthur. “Two were for London, and one was for Ventnor.”
“Just so,” assented Mr. Galloway. “Now, then, to whom did you intrust the posting of those letters?”
“I did not intrust them to any one,” replied Arthur; “I posted them myself.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure, sir,” answered Arthur, in some surprise. But Mr. Galloway said no more, and gave no reason for his inquiry. He turned into his own house, which was situated near the cloister gates, and Arthur went on home.
Had you been attending worship in Helstonleigh Cathedral that same afternoon, you might have observed, as one of the congregation, a tall stout man, with a dark, sallow face, and grey hair. He sat in a stall near to the Reverend William Yorke, who was the chanter for the afternoon. It was Dr. Lamb. A somewhat peculiar history was his. Brought up to the medical profession, and taking his physician’s degree early, he went out to settle in New Zealand, where he had friends. Circumstances brought him into frequent contact with the natives there. A benevolent, thoughtful man, gifted with much Christian grace, the sad spiritual state of these poor heathens gave the deepest concern to Dr. Lamb. He did what he could for them in his leisure hours, but his profession took up most of his time: often did he wish he had more time at his command. A few years of hard work, and then the wish was realized. A small patrimony was bequeathed him, sufficient to enable him to live without work. From that time he applied himself to the arduous duties of a missionary, and his labours were crowned with marked success. Next came illness. He was attacked with rheumatism in the joints; and after many useless remedies had been tried, he came home in search of health, which he found, as you have heard, in certain German spas.
Mr. Channing watched the clock eagerly. Unless it has been your portion, my reader, to undergo long and apparently hopeless affliction, and to find yourself at length unexpectedly told that there may be a cure for you; that another, afflicted in a similar manner, has been restored to health by simple means, and will call upon you and describe to you what they were — you could scarcely understand the nervous expectancy of Mr. Channing on this afternoon. Four o’clock! they would soon be here now.
A very little time longer, and they were with him — his family, Mr. Yorke, and Dr. Lamb. The chief subject of anxiety was soon entered upon, Dr. Lamb describing his illness at great length.
“But were you as helpless as I am?” inquired Mr. Channing.
“Quite as helpless. I was carried on board, and carried to a bed at an hotel when I reached England. From what I have heard of your case, and from what you say, I should judge the nature of your malady to be precisely similar to mine.”
“And now tell me about the healing process.”
Dr. Lamb paused. “You must promise to put faith in my prescription.”
Mr. Channing raised his eyes in surprise. “Why should I not do so?”
“Because it will appear to you so very simple. I consulted a medical man in London, one skilled in rheumatic cases, and he gave it as his opinion that a month or two passed at one of the continental springs might restore me. I laughed at him.”
“You did not believe him?”
“I did not, indeed. Shall I confess to you that I felt vexed with him? There was I, a poor afflicted man, lying helpless, racked with pain; and to be gravely assured that a short sojourn at a pleasant foreign watering-place would, in all probability, cure me, sounded very like mockery. I knew something of the disease, its ordinary treatment, and its various phases. It was true I had left Europe for many years, and strange changes had been taking place in medical science. Still, I had no faith in what he said, as being applicable to my own case; and for a whole month, week after week, day after day, I declined to entertain his views. I considered that it would be so much time and money wasted.”
Dr. Lamb paused. Mr. Channing did not interrupt him.
“One Sunday evening, I was on my solitary sofa — lying in pain — as I can see you are lying now. The bells were ringing out for evening service. I lay thinking of my distressed condition; wishing I could be healed. By-and-by, after the bells had ceased, and the worshippers had assembled within the walls of the sanctuary, from which privilege I was excluded, I took up my Bible. It opened at the fifth chapter of the second book of Kings. I began to read, somewhat listlessly, I fear — listlessly, at any rate, compared with the strange enthusiasm which grew upon me as I read, ‘Go and wash in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again to thee, and thou shalt be clean. And Naaman was wroth.... And his servants spake unto him and said, My father, if the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, wouldest thou not have done it? how much rather then, when he saith unto thee, Wash, and be clean?’
“Mr. Channing,” Dr. Lamb continued in a deeper tone, “the words sounded in my ear, fell upon my heart, as a very message sent direct from God. All the folly of my own obstinate disbelief came full upon me; the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I said, ‘Shall I not try that simple thing?’ A firm conviction that the chapter had been directed to me that night as a warning, seated itself within me; and, from that hour, I never entertained a shadow of doubt but that the baths would be successful.”
“And you journeyed to them?”
“Instantly. Within a week I was there. I seemed to know that I was going to my cure. You will not, probably, understand this.”
“I understand it perfectly,” was Mr. Channing’s answer. “I believe that a merciful Providence does vouchsafe, at rare times, to move us by these direct interpositions. I need not ask you if you were cured. I have heard that you were. I see you are. Can you tell me aught of the actual means?”
“I was ordered to a small place in the neighbourhood of Aix-la-Chapelle; a quiet, unpretending place, where there are ever-rising springs of boiling, sulphuric water. The precise course of treatment I will come in another day and describe to you. I had to drink a great deal of the water, warm — six or eight half-pints of it a day; I had to bathe regularly in this water; and I had to take what are called douche baths every other day.”
“I have heard of the douche baths,” said Mr. Channing. “Rather fierce, are they not?”
“Fierce!” echoed the doctor. “The first time I tried one, I thought I should never come out alive. The water was dashed upon me, through a tube, with what seemed alarming force until I grew used to it; whilst an attendant rubbed and turned and twisted my limbs about, as if they had been so many straws in his strong hand. So violent is the action of the water that my face had to be protected by a board, lest it should come into contact with it.”
“Strong treatment!” remarked Mr. Channing.
“Strong, but effectual. Effectual, so far as my case was concerned. Whether it was drinking the water, or the sulphur baths, the douches, the pure air, or the Prussian doctor’s medicine, or all combined, I was, under God’s goodness, restored to health. I entertain no doubt that you may be restored in like manner.”
“And the cost?” asked Mr. Channing, with a sigh he could not wholly suppress.
“There’s the beauty of it! the advantage to us poor folks, who possess a shallow purse, and that only half filled,” laughed Dr. Lamb. “Had it been costly, I could not have afforded it. These baths, mind you, are in the hotel, which is the greatest possible accommodation to invalids; the warm baths cost a franc each, the douche two francs, the water you drink, nothing. The doctor’s fee is four and sixpence, and you need not consult him often. Ascertain the proper course, and go on with it.”
“But the hotel expenses?”
“That cost me four shillings a day, everything included, except a trifle for servants. Candles alone were extras, and I did not burn them very much, for I was glad to go to bed early. Wine I do not take, or that also would have been an extra. You could not live very much cheaper at home.”
“How I should like to go!” broke from the lips of Mr. Channing.
Hamish came forward. “You must go, my dear father! It shall be managed.”
“You speak hopefully, Hamish.”
Hamish smiled. “I feel so, sir.”
“Do you feel so, also, my friend!” said Dr. Lamb, fervently. “Go forth to the remedy as I did, in the full confidence that God can, and will, send His blessing upon it.”
CHAPTER XVIII. — MR. JENKINS ALIVE AGAIN.
The quiet of Sunday was over, and Helstonleigh awoke on the Monday morning to the bustle of every-day life. Mr. Jenkins awoke, with others, and got up — not Jenkins the old bedesman, but his son Joseph, who had the grey mare for his wife. It was Mr. Jenkins’s intention to resume his occupation that day, with Mr. Hurst’s and Mrs. Jenkins’s permission: the former he might have defied; the latter he dared not. However, he was on the safe side, for both had accorded it.
Mrs. Jenkins was making breakfast in the small parlour behind her hosiery shop, when her husband appeared. He looked all the worse for his accident. Poor Joe was one whom a little illness told upon. Thin, pale, and lantern-jawed at the best of times — indeed he was not infrequently honoured with the nickname of “scare-crow” — he now looked thinner and paler than ever. His tall, shadowy form seemed bent with the weakness induced by lying a few days in bed; while his hair had been cut off in three places at the top of his head, to give way to as many patches of white plaster.
“A nice figure you’ll cut in the office, to-day, with those ornaments on your crown!” was Mrs. Jenkins’s salutation.
“I am thinking to fold this broadly upon my head, and tie it under my chin,” said he, meekly, holding out a square, black silk handkerchief which he had brought down in his hand.
“That would not hide the patch upon your forehead, stupid!” responded Mrs. Jenkins. “I believe you must have bumped upon the edge of every stair in the organ-loft, as you came down, to get so many wounds!” she continued crossly. “If you ever do such a senseless trick again, you shan’t stir abroad without me or the maid at your back, to take care of you; I promise you that!”
“I have combed my hair over the place on my forehead!” civilly replied Mr. Jenkins. “I don’t think it shows much.”
“And made yourself look like an owl! I thought it was nothing less than a stuffed owl coming in. Why can’t you wear your hat? That would hide your crown and your forehead too.”
“I did think of that; and I dare say Mr. Galloway would allow me to do it, and overlook the disrespect in consideration of the circumstances,” answered Jenkins. “But then, I thought again, suppose the dean should chance to come into the office to-day? — or any of the canons? There’s no telling but they may. I could not keep my hat on in their presence; and I should not like to take it off, and expose the plasters.”
“You’d frighten them away, if you did,” said Mrs. Jenkins, dashing some water into the teapot.
“Therefore,” he added, when she had finished speaking, “I think it will be better to put on this handkerchief. People do wear them, when suffering from neuralgia, or from toothache.”
“Law! wear it, if you like! what a fuss you make about nothing! If you chose to go with your head wrapped up in a blanket, nobody would look at you.”
