Her Husband's Keeper. A novel

Front matter

HER HUSBAND'S KEEPER 2\ §Lobtl. BY MRS. MACKENZIE-DANIEL, AUTHOR OF " ESTHEB DUDLEY'S WOOEBS," " THE OLD MAID OF THE FAMILY," ETC, ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: CHARLES J. SKEET, 10, KING WILLIAM STREET, CHAEING CBOSB. 1875. [All rights reserved.] CONTENTS OF VOL. III. CHAPTEE PAGE i. Margaret's night-watch - - - - 1 ii. miss Elizabeth's indisposition - - 24 iii. the bird flown 49 iv. david refusing to be comforted - 68 v. the advantage of marrying a widower - 86 vi. the rector's happy thought - - 103 vii. david brought to reason by his motheb- 1N-LAW 115 VIII. A DREAMER BECOMING A WORKER - - 135 IX. MISS ELIZABETH'S HUSBAND - - - 156 X. LUCIFER UNMASKED - - - - 178 XI. MARGARET HAS HER OWN WAY - 202 XII. STEP-MOTHER AND STEP-DAUGHTER - -_ 217 XIIL BABY 232 XIV. GOING HOME 247 XV. FADING 263 XVI. LIFE OB DEATH ----- HER HUSBAND'S KEEPER.

Chapter I

Margaret's night-watch. Mrs. David Fletcher had yet another warm greeting to receive, another brief interview to go through, before arriving at home that day. Passing along the High street of Ditchley, entirely absorbed in her own very anxious thoughts, not even aware that her carriage had entered the town, she was roused from her perplexed meditations by the abrupt stopping of the horses, and the almost simultaneous apparition of a smiling, familiar face at one of the windows. Letting this down immediately, she shook hands with Mr. Spenser, observed that it VOL. III. was a miserable evening for him to be out walking, and asked if she might not have the pleasure of giving him a seat in the carriage to the Hall. A sudden idea had, in truth, come into this poor little woman's head, in reference to the possibility of consulting the Rector on the subject of Elizabeth's equivocal pro ceedings, and entreating him to advise her as to what course she ought to pursue.

It was only a momentary suggestion, inspired by her really distracted frame of mind ; but she might have carried it out, and possibly have altered, by so doing, the whole sequence of future events, had the gentleman been able to accept her friendly invitation. But he was not able. Thanking Mrs. Fletcher cordially, and looking as if the temptation offered was a very strong one, he explained that he had two or three visits to pay in the town. There was some sick ness about, and his parishioners, having heard of the outbreak of a serious epidemic in a neighbouring village, had taken fright, and were doing their utmost — a few coward spirits amongst them, at least— to spread a regular panic. If this were not stopped, Mr. Spenser said, their fears might hasten on the calamity they were dreading, and all who had lived long in Ditchley knew that it was far easier to get an epidemic into the place than to get it out again.

The town was not a healthy one, by any means, lying nearly in a valley, and being indifferently drained. He did not, however, believe that there was ground for apprehension as yet. People naturally had bad colds at this season of the year, and in some cases there might be a little sore throat or even feverishness ; but nothing would have been thought of it, but for what had been heard concerning the infected village. He, Mr. Spenser, and the doctors had agreed to go round and try if they could not talk some grains of common 1—2 Margaret's night-avatch. 4 sense into the panic-stricken people, before worse came of it. "So you see, dear Mrs. Fletcher," con cluded this affectionate and excellent pastor, " that I have no choice but to sacrifice inclination to duty to-night. I will come up, if possible, to-morrow, just to let you know how things are going on.

You must keep Amy from the town for a day or two, and there can be no need for you to drive this way yourself. Good-evening. Don't be the least uneasy. I am thoroughly persuaded the whole thing is simply a weak cry of ' "Wolf,' when there is no wolf within a hundred miles. My kind regards to Mr. Fletcher and the young ladies. You look so cosy and warm in there, that if I stay contemplating you any longer, the temptation to fill the opposite corner may be too seductive ; so once more, dear Mrs. Fletcher, good-bye." Margaret was not in the very slightest degree uneasy about this rumour of sickness in Ditchley, but she was sorry the Rector had not been free to return home with her. The more she thought of Mr. Perkins's news, the more utterly bewildered she became, as to what immediate use she could make of it.

If she told her husband without ver}' careful preparation, there was no saying to what lengths his anger and excitement might carry him, and Margaret was firmly convinced that harshness or violent re proaches would drive ElizabetU to extremi ties. On the other hand, if she could summon up courage to speak to the girl herself, what end would it answer, beyond intensifying her step-daughter's aversion, and prompting her to more open defiance ! And yet, to remain absolutely silent, with the knowledge of those clandestine meetings in her possession, Margaret felt would be criminal, and a sure way of dooming the infatuated Elizabeth to the destruction she was evidently courting, in her blindness and ignorance, for herself. That the stranger was her cousin, Herbert Meredith, there could not be the shadow of a doubt, and that he was here for the purpose of urging her to marry him secretly, Margaret entirely believed.

But she believed also, judging from her own observations of ElizabetU Fletcher's character, that it would not be a very short or a very easy task to persuade her into a step which the whole world would condemn, and designate as one of glaring impropriety. The lady not being of age they would probably have to go to Scotland for the performance of the marriage ceremony, and Margaret could not help thinking that her step-daughter, ho we ver selfwilled, passionate, and unamiable in her general relations to those around her, had too exalted an estimate of her own dignity, and indeed too pure a mind to be readily induced to descend to a vulgar and questionable expedient of this nature. Anyhow, Mr. Herbert Meredith must, she thought, prepare himself for a lengthened siege, and she should have time for careful personal vigilance as regarded Elizabeth, and for equally careful feeling of her ground as regarded enlightening her husband.

Still, though this was the prevailing colour her reflections took at last, it cannot be said that Mrs. David Fletcher had quite made up her mind, when she entered her own doors that evening, as to how much, or how little, secrecy, she should maintain for the present, on the subject that had been so miserably harassing her. David met his wife in the hall, anxious at her being so late ; and having ascertained the cause of her detention (she only, however, told him of her second interview), he hastened to give her the information that Amy was with her sister in the boudoir, whence he had, himself, just come. Elizabeth had most rashly, he added, gone for a drive in the afternoon, but had returned early, and had since been seized with shivering fits, and sensations of nausea. She looked so ill, too, that he had not hesitated to send for Dr. Emerson, whose arrival they were now every minute expecting.

Margaret's news about the panic in Ditchley, though she made very light of it herself, not unnaturally increased the father's anxiety. Neither of his girls had ever had scarlet fever, he said, with a white terrified face, and of course these were exactly the premonitory symptoms of that dire malady. In vain his wife assured him that head-ache and sore throat would have been much more significant — that there really was no fever of any kind, as yet, with in ten miles of the Hall, or of Ditchley even — poor David had got the notion firmly rooted in his head now, and all the arguing in the world, if his wife had not been too tired herself to persevere in her arguments, would not have driven it out. At his request, she went at once to the boudoir to look at the patient, but Elizabeth, possibly anticipating such a visit, was lying on a sofa by the fire, with her eyes closed, and Amy said she thought her sister was just dozing a little.

" Anyhow, I will not disturb her," Mar garet whispered, after stooping to look as narrowly as she could into the certainly flushed face of the supposed sleeper. " Her maid had better come and sit in the room with her while we are at dinner, which must be waiting now ; and no doubt Dr. Emerson will be here by the time we have finished." David, whoUy absorbed in his own restless anxiety, seemed a little surprised that his wife could suggest their going down to their dinner as usual. He forgot that she had been out in the cold frosty air all the after noon, and that the facts of Elizabeth having shivered after a drive in an open carriage, and even being: threatened with a bilious _J attack, were scarcely sufficient reasons for her step-mother to abstain from eating. " You and Amy can go and dine together," he said, as they all three stood for a moment outside the boudoir ; " but for my part, I could not touch a mouthful till I have seen Emerson.

I shall hover about till he comes, and bring him up here at once. But, first, I will go down and ring for Benson to attend upon her mistress." Margaret thought, in her secret heart, that he was very foolish not to take his dinner, but as there was no manner of doubt that his fidgety and restless state of mind would have prevented his enjoying it, she offered no remonstrance, sending Amy to the dining room, and promising to be with her there in ten minutes. These two got over their meal quickly, and were in the drawing-room with Mr. Fletcher by the time the doctor arrived. Amy had told Margaret, in answer to the latter's inquiries, that Elizabeth had only complained of feeling ill about half-an-hour after her return, that she had begun shivering at first, and had presently mentioned that she was sick.

Amy believed she had only caught a bad cold, but as Elizabeth was never ill her sister was easily alarmed, and had run at once to tell their father. As soon as he saw his daughter and heard her symptoms from herself, he had become nervous, Amy said, and though Elizabeth had scoffed at the idea, had insisted on dis patching one of the men servants immediately for Dr. Emerson. He was nervous still when that gentleman, at length, made his appearance, and spoke vaguely and mysteriously, as doctors love to speak, concerning the rumour of serious illness in Ditchley. He was not prepared to say that there was absolutely no foundation for the alarm which undoubtedly existed in the town, and which he and others had been endeavouring to calm that afternoon ; neither, on the other hand, could he assert that there was any real ground for it.

All he knew, for certain, was that the epidemic raging in the neighbouring village — a singularly damp, marshy locality — though called scarlet fever, was in truth a fever of an even more malig nant and serious kind, and it was because the Ditchley people had heard this, that the panic had spread so rapidly. He did not, however, believe that there was a single case of even ordinary scarletina in the town, and he hoped that in a few days the present un easiness would have entirely subsided. Of course, it might turn out otherwise, and if so, they must meet the calamity as best they might. Upstairs this provoking doctor was equally vague and unsatisfactory. Miss Elizabeth was unquestionably very unwell. She had many feverish and bilious symptoms, and her pulse and tongue both denoted an ex tremely excited state of the nervous system.

It might be only a severe cold accompanied by derangement of the liver, in which case the medicine he would send on reaching home would set her up in a day or two ; but the symptoms exhibited might possibly in dicate more serious mischief, and be the forerunners of almost any description of fever. He did not think it was so ; he earnestly trusted it was not, but in all these doubtful cases the utmost precaution was necessary, and he should order Miss Eliza beth to bed immediately, with a good fire in her room, which must be kept up all night. The medicine he was going to prescribe would have to be taken at regular intervals, in the event of the patient being awake ; otherwise sleep and warmth were as likely to do her good, and to calm that excitement of the nerves from which she was suffering at present.

All this, and a great deal more (for Dr. Emerson had got a bottle of fine old Ma deira beside him, and seemed in no particular hurry to depart) was said in the drawing-room, David, with his wife and Amy, being the anxious and greatly inte rested listeners. The father was not at all reassured by the doctor's opinion, which, considering its general haziness, was perhaps not to be wondered at. He asked a thousand questions while Dr. Emerson wTas sip ping his wine, and gained in return (as he remembered later) curiously little information. Margaret told him, when at last they were alone, and she had with difficulty per suaded him to take some refreshment, that she was certain Dr. Emerson knew no more what was the matter with Elizabeth than they did themselves. It was quite right, no doubt, to order her to bed, and to insist on her and her fire being attended to during: the night ; but for the rest, the good man had evidently been groping in thick dark ness, and talking big that they might not find it out.

Elizabeth herself, in the midst of all this excitement was very quiet and subdued. She did not even ask what Dr. Emerson had said downstairs, but appeared content to go to bed as she was desired, and to acquiesce in whatever arrangements those around her were making for her comfort. David would linger and fuss about the sick room till the last, giving a hundred directions to Benson, who was to sit up with her mistress, seeing that the medicine and a jug of barley-water, with glasses and spoons were all ranged on a table by the bedside ; feeling Elizabeth's pulse so often that the weary object of his solicitude was obliged to assure him that he was only irritating her nerves, and destroy ing her chance of sleeping ; and finally, charging Benson in the most solemn manner to fetch him should his daughter seem in any way worse during the night, and on no account to go to sleep, even for a minute, herself.

He was quite worn out in the end by his bodily exertions and mental restlessness, and to Margaret's thankfulness did not stay awake half an hour after his head was on his pillow. But it was otherwise with her. She had a legion of unquiet thoughts to drive " tired nature's sweet restorer" from her own eyes, and having no faith in the wakeful powers, during a whole night in a warm room, of a girl of Benson's age, it occurred to her that she would go softly and ascertain how things were progressing in the invalid's apartment, herself. Her first idea was, if she found Benson very sleepy, or asleep, to replace her by her own maid, who was older and a very sensible woman into the bargain ; but as Margaret stepped noiselessly along the passages leading to her step-daughter's quarters, she came to the resolution of dismissing Benson to bed in any case, and remaining as her sub stitute till the morning.

Her husband was a very heavy sleeper, and would not be likely to miss her. Even if he came to look for her he would approve of what she proposed doing ; and, who could tell ? it might do good in more ways than one. As was to have been expected, poor Ben son, having struggled with nature and youth as long as she possibly could, was now nod ding contentedly in her easy chair, the fire nearly out, and the temperature of the large, lofty room becoming colder and colder every minute. Fortunately Elizabeth was also sound asleep, and, going on tiptoe to look at her Margaret discovered that she was breathing softly and regularly, though her face was still flushed, and there was some moisture that had the appearance of tears beneath the shut eyelids. VOL. III. Returning after this survey to Benson, Mrs. Fletcher very gently roused the girl from her slumbers, and explaining where fore she had come, desired her to get at once to bed, so that she might be fresh and well to wait on her mistress again in the morning.

Full of penitence and apologies, which Margaret listened to with an indulgent smile, Benson just stayed to make up the dilapidated fire, to show Mrs. Fletcher the medicine, to assure her that Miss Elizabeth had rested as quietly as a new-born babe, and then crept away, nothing loth, to finish her own broken and stolen sleep. Margaret had been sitting for more than half an hour by the restored fire, thinking fast and busily, as she warmed her feet, and watched the leaping flames, when a voice from the bed called, in a languid undertone — " Benson, are you awake ? What o'clock is it?" In a moment the new nurse had risen, and was standing where the light from the night lamp fell full upon her, close beside the patient. " Don't be startled," she said, with ex treme gentleness (for Elizabeth had sprung up in bed, as though she had been sud denly shot).

" I could not sleep myself, and doubting the capacity of Benson for keeping awake, I came to see after you. I have sent her to bed now, and mean to stay with you till morning. It is nearly three at present, and you must take your medicine," Her studied quietness, and the very mat. ter of fact way in which she explained the situation, had probably the happy effect of saving them both from a highly dramatic scene, towards which Elizabeth had shown symptoms of inclining. As it was, she re placed her head upon the pillows, when Margaret had done speaking, and only answered, weariedly — o o " You are very good to give yourself so much trouble, and I am distressed that you should have done it for me. Benson surely might have kept awake for one night. She shall hear of this in the morning." " Never mind Benson just now," said Mar garet, soothingly (children and invalids have an equal right to soothing treatment, even if they are not quite so good as they ought to be).

" I don't really think she could help being sleepy. But, tell me how you have rested, yourself, Elizabeth, and how you feel, and then we must see about Dr. Emerson's delicately tinted medicine. Look, what a beautiful rose colour he has given to it." " I don't want medicine," Elizabeth as serted, with some petulance but more dejec tion in her voice. " I am not ill in the way they think. I wish everybody would leave me alone. Do go back to bed, Mrs. Fletcher. It irritates me beyond measure to see }rou here." Margaret smiled, as she patiently worked the cork out of the bottle, poured out the given quantity, and handed the glass to the invalid. Elizabeth looked at her steadfastly for a moment, then once more sat up, with an angry jerk, in bed, and, almost snatching at the pretty, rose-coloured mixture, swallowed it without another word, but with a face of cold derision — probably at her own weakness.

" Not so nasty, is it ?" inquired Margaret, taking back the glass, and determined not to see that her step-daughter was chafing and writhing: under the infliction of Uer minis terings. "Even physic in our luxurious age is made agreeable to the taste. And I am sure, if we could, we should change the rod with which our best Friend chastises us for our sins and mistakes into a bunch of harmless feathers. Luckily, we cannot do this, and so our poor backs sometimes get very sorely wounded." " I am very sleepy," said Elizabeth, drily, " and if you persist in remaining here, you had better go to the fire, and leave me to rest if I can. I shall be able, I hope, to thank you better in the morning for making a victim of yourself on my behalf. It is all through papa's fidgetty and weak-minded fancies."

Margaret shook up the pilhrws, smoothed the bed-clothes, diminished the light on the small table, and then went quietly back to her own chair by the fire. She was not deceived by Elizabeth's brusquerie and ungraciousness. She saw that the girl's mind was in a wild tur moil, and that her rude, abrupt manner, and apparent ingratitude, were, in fact, only the bubbles that rose to the surface of the troubled waters. She had, in truth — this gentle, tender-hearted Margaret — too much faith in human nature to believe that even Elizabeth Fletcher could remain cold, and hard, and unloving, if she once took in that those whom she had done her best to repel were patiently seeking to win her affection and confidence.

Chapter II

miss Elizabeth's indisposition Whether Elizabeth really slept any more that night, Margaret could not quite deter mine. At the hour when the medicine was due, the latter went softly to the bedside, and found the invalid's eves fast closed, and her attitude sufficiently suggestive of restfulness to justify her not being disturbed, though the watcher had her suspicions, from certain tremulous movements of the full white eyelids, as she stooped over the bed, that the slumbers of its occupant might be less profound than they appeared. Anyhow, the patient made no sign, and the self-appointed nurse, but for missing her own sleep, had a tolerably easy time of it. With the very first dawn of morning, Benson came noiselessly into the room, bringing some warm delicious tea, both for Mrs. Fletcher and the invalid, and hoping, probably, by this zeal and thoughtfulness, to escape the reproof which she feared she had earned from Miss Elizabeth, by her drowsiness of the previous night.

Margaret was very thankful for her share of the tea, and having drunk it she left Benson to watch for the young lady's waking (there was no doubt about the genuineness of the sleep she was enjoying at present), and stole back to her own room, where she found her husband just opening his eyes, and won dering why his wife had risen before him. On her explaining that it was still very earby, and that she had been nearly all night with his sick daughter, David's admiration and gratitude knew no bounds ; but he insisted that Margaret should remain in bed till late in the day, and he icould get up himself im mediately to see about her breakfast, and to send her maid to light a fire for her. Margaret did not oppose him, for she guessed that he was also anxious to satisfy himself, by a personal inspection, that Eli zabeth did not resemble a spotted leopard this morning ; and indeed the poor little woman was sufficiently tired and chilled from her unaccustomed vigils, to be unspeakably thankful to be left alone.

After she had taken what she could of the dainty breakfast her husband sent up to her, with many affectionate charges that she should make a good meal, her aching eyes closed instinctively, and she slept for several hours soundly and refreshingly. Amy was standing by her bedside when, at last, she awoke, David having sent his youngest daughter to cheer his wife with the intelligence that the doctor had been, and that he did not think now there was any fear of Elizabeth being sickening for scarlet fever. She had a dreadful cold, and was still very unwell ; but by keeping to her room for a few days, and being carefully nursed, Dr. Emerson was of opinion that she would soon get over her indisposition. " And papa is so glad," concluded Amy, " that I thought he would never have finished shaking hands with Dr. Emerson.

I have told Elizabeth, because I want her to take in the fuU extent of the anxiety she has excited. Oh, and Mr. Spenser has called, and papa has asked him to stay to lunch." Margaret wondered, for a moment, why this information was given last, and why Amy half turned her head away while she was giving it. Then the observant stepmother ceased to wonder, only smiling a little quiet smile to herself, and deciding that, with a humble, grateful, absorbent nature like Amy's, it was very far from un natural. " It seems, then, that I must get up with out more delay," she said, briskly, " though to find myself here at nearly one o'clock, is enough to confuse a stronger brain than mine, Amy. Tell me, however, before you go, what sort of mood Elizabeth is in to-day, and whether she still seems annoyed at my having spent part of the night with her."

" She is very quiet," Amy answered, " and I think exceedingly depressed. She has not alluded directly to your having gone to her in the night; but, as I know you would wish for the truth, she said both to papa and to me, at different times, ' Mind, I cannot have anybody coming to my room to-day. It only excites and worries me, however well-meant.' We suppose by ' anybody,' which was strongly emphasized, she meant you, and papa thinks, and so do I, that it is shamefully ungrateful." "Well, never mind, dear," replied Mar garet, faintly smiling, " sick people are privileged to be a little cross-grained, and, of course, being on the terms we are, my going unasked to your sister's room may have seemed to her an intrusion. Run away now, Amy, and entertain the Rector till I join you. I don't think your papa and he care much for each other's society."

But David, being in a splendid humour that day, was unusually friendly and agreeable to Mr. Spenser, who had come to tell Margaret there were no cases of fever in Ditchley, and that if she or Amy had any business there, he believed they might go with perfect safety. He stayed for a good long time after lunch, and the weather being bright and dry, had a walk in the grounds with the two ladies. Margaret judged that it was well for her husband to see her often in the Rector's society, that he might the sooner get over that foolish, unacknowledged jealousy, which (had she ever betrayed the least disposition to avoid her former suitor, or evinced consciousness of any kind when he was their guest) might have grown into a very formidable and troublesome enemy to their domestic peace. She hoped, too, that by-and-by there would be an evident and unanswerable reason for David's mind to be for ever at rest on the subject.

Before the post went out that day, Margaret wrote a full account to Rhoda of all that she had heard from Mr. Perkins, asking if it would not be well now, when the danger appeared so imminent, to reveal to Mr. Fletcher as much as they themselves knew concerning Elizabeth's attachment to her cousin. "I will speak to her, myself, about these meetings if she will only give me a chance," the writer added ; " but her icy manner to me always, makes a con fidential talk nearly an impossibility." The next day Elizabeth was pronounced to be going on satisfactorily, but was on no account to leave her room, or to be subjected to any exciting influences. The pulse was still much too quick and feverish, Dr. Emerson said ; and he added a private opinion to the father that the young lady had something on her mind, which was keeping up this abnormal physical agitation.

David repeated the doctor's words to Elizabeth when he next went to see her, asking anxiously if this could be the case, and entreating her to tell him, frankly, if it were so. " What a fool that man is ! " replied the young lady, with a face that changed from red to white with startling abruptness. " He knows about as much about my mind as he does about my body. I won't see him any more. People don't want doctors for a cold, and I am sick to death of being fussed over." Nevertheless, David, judging this to be an equivocal reply, begged Margaret to make an excuse for going to the perverse girl that evening, urging that her woman's wit would help her to find out whatever there might be to discover, far sooner than any quali fications he possessed for so delicate a mis sion. Poor Margaret felt absolutely guilty in accepting this errand, and but for the dread of giving her husband pain, and changing all his recent gladness into wrath and bitterness, she would, then and there, have revealed to him her burdensome secret.