Authors: Jean Stubbs
Meanwhile he was working as he had never worked before.
*
The middle of the parlour at Quincey Place was delightfully warm, owing to an abundance of coal upon the fire, which a little maidservant replenished as soon as it grew red and coagulent. But Zelah preferred, on this winter afternoon, to take herself and her sewing into the cooler perimeter, and sit at the window to enjoy the last of tbe sunshine.
With her dark-gold hair drawn into a Grecian knot, and her simple gown, she was in the very height of fashion, and secretly grateful for the comfort of her cashmere shawl. Ned had delivered judgement on both daughters as to the unsuitability of such clothing in a northern climate. But, though Dorcas might still wear her little corset and swathe herself in wool and linen underwear, Charlotte and Zelah preferred to shiver in one thin petticoat, a chemise, and a pair of cotton drawers. Frills and tight-lacing were out: the French revolution had influenced more than English politics.
At this time of the year gentlefolk kept indoors as much as possible, and distance conquered sociability. So Zelah had been alone all day, with only the view from her parlour window for company. Formerly part of a large family, she found her enforced solitude a grave problem, though she strove in every way to lighten it. When she had given her orders, and written home, and said her silent prayers, time hung heavily upon her. From breakfast to dark she saw nothing of husband or brother, who ate their dinners at their foundries in a couple of basins. And when at last all three gathered to sup together, Caleb would bring his accounts and William his building plans, and apart from a civil enquiry as to her well-being, the evening revolved round iron. The only sure way was to divert them with congenial company, but they could not entertain visitors six nights of the week. And nowadays, when she played her harpsichord, however raptly William seemed to listen, immediately afterwards he would say something like, Ah! I have hit upon a solution to that trouble in the moulding shop, Caleb!’ As though even music were but a means to his iron ends.
So Zelah gazed through the window at the frosty garden, with nothing to cheer her but the thought of her mother coming to Belbrook in the spring, when their first child was expected; and the little garment in her lap received a baptism of tears.
Her labour started just before breakfast on the tenth day of April, and Caleb was despatched at once to Millbridge to inform old Dr Standish and Charlotte, while William rode to Kit’s Hill to alert the Howarths, Catherine Scholes had journeyed northwards for the event, and such was her influence that no one apart from the family knew anything untoward was happening at Quincey Place. There was no running to and fro, no muffling of knockers or laying of straw on the threshold or rousing of near neighbours. Zelah sat for a few hours by the parlour fire, sewing with her mother, and assuring them that she felt very well indeed. Dr Matthew Standish pronounced himself satisfied as to her progress, and said he would call back at tea-time. While William, viewing his wife afresh, sat humbly by her. Occasionally he would touch her cheek or her hand, and then she would pause for a moment to smile at him, and sometimes clasp his fingers as the mild contractions came and went. It was the quietest and pleasantest Sabbath they had spent together for a long while, and William’s conscience smote him when he reflected that it was his driving ambition and impatience which threatened the domestic peace. He endeavoured to learn a lesson from Zelah, and so refrained from pacing the room, drumming his knuckles on the table, and behaving in his usual restless manner. Dorcas and Ned drove up in the trap towards dinner-time, but Zelah could eat nothing and at two o’clock was forced to retire, when the contest began in earnest.
They had prepared a small bedroom at the back of the house, especially for the birth: a new procedure of which Matthew Standish deeply approved.
‘For you would not operate upon a man in a four-poster bed,’ he said belligerently, ‘nor swaddle him in bedclothes and suffocate him with feather pillows and mattresses while you were about it! Birth is as much an operation as any other. The organism is just as profoundly shocked, the danger as great, the rate of mortality still higher than one could wish. So let the mother lie upon a firm and narrow bed in a well-warmed room, with a sheet and blanket over her, and so make matters easier for both doctor and patient.’
Thus he provided Millbridge tea-parties with fresh cause for disapproval, and ladies continued to prefer midwives and four-poster beds.
The child came forth into a cold and barren spring; borne by its young mother with gasping prayers for fortitude, while Catherine spoke loving encouragement, and Dorcas held high the candlestick so that Dr Standish might see what he was about. Downstairs, the men sat together: William now quite overcome by the length and severity of the ordeal, Caleb bereft of his usual humour, and Ned quietly smoking his pipe. Supper was a scrappy meal, and every time a door opened or shut, an order was given, or footsteps sounded up and down the stairs, they looked at each other in hope and fear.
At ten o’clock Charlotte joined them, saying that a neighbour had come that way and set her down at the gate. William was too distracted to care, but Ned guessed that she did not mention any name for fear of upsetting Caleb. So it would be a gentleman, he conjectured, looking shrewdly at his daughter. Possibly Nicodemus Hurst. She was looking flushed and well, decidedly handsome, and younger than her nine-and-twenty years.
‘Come and sit by me, my lass,’ said Ned, loving her.
There was something both ashamed and defiant in the way she glanced at him, as though she would be sorry to hurt him but had no choice. Which he also noted. Then she smiled, and sat in the circle of his arm, and became his child again.
‘You don’t wear enough clothes!’ he grumbled, content to have her near him.
A woman’s wail from the back of the house silenced them. Like a soul parting from its body and mourning for the passing, it came into the parlour and lingered on the air. At this despairing cry William jumped from his chair and would have run upstairs, but for his father’s kindly admonition.
‘Sit you down, my lad. That’s good news, or I’m a Dutchman!’
They all watched and waited and did not speak. The silence was profound. All sounds of the struggle above had ceased. Then they heard Catherine’s foot upon the stairs, Catherine’s voice at the door. She came in smiling, and embraced her son-in-law.
‘Now God be thanked, William. Thee has a daughter, and thy wife is spared. Nay, do not go just yet. Thou shalt see them in a little while, my son. Thee has cause to rejoice!’
But he buried his face in his hands, and wept.
One by one they came in, making as small a noise as possible, and kissed Zelah’s cheek or patted her hand, and peered into the cradle by her bed. None of them was disappointed that the child was a girl. There would be time enough for sons to come.
‘So, Mr Howarth,’ said Dr Standish, as Ned helped him into his greatcoat, ‘I begin to bring forth your second generation!’
They had nourished reservations for so many years that friendship itself could not be closer.
‘I don’t know so much about that,’ Ned replied. ‘Our Will were born before you got there!’
And the doctor had taken his guinea just the same.
‘Well, well, sir,’ said Matthew Standish, ‘let us not be so particular. We are neither of us growing any younger, and need not argue over a shade of opinion.’
‘Speak for thyself!’ said Ned, grinning.
The doctor gave his thin smile.
‘At least I may offer to take this lady home,’ he said of Charlotte. ‘And in this case I cannot be accused of evading my medical duties, for I certainly delivered
her
!’
Raising a laugh on his own account.
Rheumatism prevented him from horse-riding these days, and he now travelled to and from his patients in a gig. So Charlotte was wrapped up in her cloak by Ned, and helped into her seat by Caleb.
‘I am an aunt at last!’ she cried, to excuse the radiance she could neither subdue nor explain. ‘Oh, what a dragon I shall be!’
They laughed again, for Charlotte was notoriously indulgent with all children.
‘Come on, my lass, let’s get thee home,’ said Ned, fussing over Dorcas’s cloak and shoes. ‘There’s a sharp frost in the air! Give us a light, wil’ya, Caleb, for the horse-lanterns?’
‘Another bad summer,’ said Dorcas, ‘will find us sorely troubled to make do!’ And was momentarily downcast at the thought.
‘Nay, our Will’ll take Dick and me on as labourers at Snape!’ Ned replied, a-gleam with good humour.
So they all departed. Only once on the way home did Ned voice a note of disquiet.
‘Our Lottie looks like a cat wi’ a saucer of cream! What’s she up to now, I wonder?’
For they could never be quite sure of Charlotte.
*
William rose at daybreak with a lightness of heart he could not at first name. Then he remembered that he was lying on the mattress which yesterday had been Zelah’s bed of pain, and that she was safely delivered. He lifted himself on one elbow and listened. An infant wailed. A door opened and shut. Someone was about Catherine, most probably, whom he loved next to Dorcas and his sister. She had been understanding of his courtship, forbearing towards Snape, kind to him, hopeful of him, always. No sharp word or quick frown had marred their friendship, even when he had erred. She seemed to preserve her affection for people in spite of their misdemeanours: loving them for what they were, rather than what she would have them be. He put on a wool morning-gown and slippers, and walked quietly along the passage to the main bedroom. The thin high cry of hunger was now hushed. He knocked gently on the door, and Catherine opened it
‘Thy daughter is feeding, William. Shall thee come and sit with them while I order tea?’
Like Dorcas, she clung to the old fashion. Her hair was plainly brushed beneath its linen cap, her fichu immaculate, her waist neatly corseted. He kissed her hands in gratitude, feeling new-born himself; and sat by the bed with profound humility.
The baby was very small and perfect: her round head covered in silver down, like a dandelion clock. Her little hands clasped and unclasped in ecstasy as she nuzzled at Zelah’s breast. Momentarily done, lolling against her mother’s shoulder, she contemplated William with unseeing dark-blue eyes.
He put a finger into the pink bell of her palm, and she clutched it with surprising strength. The first rays of sun were lighting the room, illuminating both mother and child, and William felt himself to be caught up with them both in a memory so old that he could recall nothing but its beauty and familiarity. In that moment he was utterly content, and at one with himself and the world.
Charlotte had ceased trying to please people, which accounted for the apologetic but defiant look she gave her father before sitting at his side. And the reason for her subdued radiance had been growing for half a year.
One Tuesday afternoon back in the autumn of 1795. Simeon Judd, being destitute but persevering, had the temerity to cross the boundary of his parish in search of work. Though Millbridge was rich in its own poor, the town’s obvious prosperity still deluded the hopeful, and Simeon was willing to turn his hand to anything. He was not a lucky man. Life had put an obstacle course before him which he set out in his youth to overcome; but youth being over, and his strength waning, he was at last brought face to face with want. Now, unknown to himself, he carried within him the ripe fruit of death, long disguised by privation. For if he felt faint, or staggered in his walk, or suffered pains in his belly, was that not due to hunger? If, having partaken of a handful of rough oats or a sour crust of bread, he sweated and vomited and purged himself, was that not the result of coarse food upon an empty stomach? So he entered Millbridge at four o’clock in the afternoon, to keep an appointment he had not made, and to disturb the peace.
As he had eaten no food since yesterday, and that not much, he was also guilty of stealing a turnip from a field and gnawing it surreptitiously as he walked. He had begun to feel its ill-effects as he trod the cobbles of the High Street, and sometimes stopped outright and held his aching guts, and sometimes stumbled. Had he been well-dressed, the shoppers would have looked compassionately into his face and diagnosed him as being sick; but his rags told them all they wished to know, and they sent for the constable because they were sure the man was drunk. Meanwhile a couple of young red-coats, with nothing better to do, fixed their bayonets in fun and advanced upon Simeon Judd, telling him to be off and not frighten the ladies. Brought to bay, he supported himself by means of Charlotte’s horse-post and confronted his tormentors.
‘I’m doing nowt wrong,’ he said, in sorry dignity.
‘He is the worse for liquor!’ said one lady decidedly.
‘I’ve nowt to buy liquor with,’ Simeon persisted, and attempted to turn out his pockets as proof of that statement. Constable Letherhead, being informed that there was only one desperate ruffian, and that two infantrymen were guarding him, now pushed his way to the front of the gathering crowd. ‘What’s your name and business?’ asked the constable, very short and sharp as became his position.
‘Simeon Judd, sir. Looking for work, sir.’
‘Looking for trouble more like!’
‘Nay, I were my own master once,’ cried Simeon, ‘and worked on my own land, and built my own cottage.’
‘Master nowt, more like! Where do you come from?’
‘Charndale way,’ said Simeon wearily, for he knew now that there was no hope for him.
‘Well, get back there,’ said Letherhead, ‘and let them find you summat!’ The onlookers murmured their approval. ‘We’ve got enough of our own to look after, without foreigners disturbing the King’s Peace!’
The red-coats still held him at bayonet-length, though by now they felt a little foolish.
‘Nay,’ said Simeon Judd, ‘I’m the one as is disturbed, mister.’
‘Off with you!’ the constable commanded.
Simeon was incapable of walking another step, and doubted whether he could hold on to the post much longer. So he made a statement which would stand in his stead.
‘Here I stop, and here I drop, until thee gives me work!’ Then he vomited up the turnip, looked piteously at his indignant audience, and fell to the ground.
At the window of Thornton House half a dozen shocked ladies stood holding china tea-cups. The comments of five of them echoed those of the scandalised people outside. The sixth hurriedly left her parlour and opened her front door, crying, ‘Bring him in here, constable. He looks faint and ill.’
‘He’s only shamming, Mrs Longe,’ said the constable sagely. ‘You know what they’re like, ma’am.’
But she ran down the steps and bent over the bundle of rags.
‘Fetch a doctor, if you please,’ she said impulsively, ‘I believe this man is dying.’
‘Dying?’ said the constable. ‘He mustn’t do that, Mrs Longe. Not here. He’s out of his parish. Hey there, Charlie! Joe!’ to two gardeners who had come to watch the fun. ‘Fetch a wheelbarrow, wilta?’
‘Is there a doctor among you?’ cried Charlotte, holding Simeon’s dirty hand. ‘Please to fetch a doctor!’
‘My dear Charlotte,’ said Mrs Graham, coming to her side but keeping her skirts out of the way, ‘you are all heart, dear, but do leave the poor creature alone. He may be suffering from gaol-fever or all manner of things. Let Constable Letherhead deal with him. The constable knows best.’
Thus she paid tribute to mercy, but relied on justice. ‘Here’s a wheelbarrow, constable,’ said Charlie Hargreaves.
‘Right we are. Would you mind moving, Mrs Longe? Just while we lift him into it.’
Charlotte put her arm round Judd’s soiled body.
‘Leave him be!’ she said, so fiercely that they moved away, touching their hats.
The crowd made a curious sound of disfavour.
‘There is a poor man here in desperate need of help,’ said Charlotte. ‘If someone will go for Dr Standish I will pay the fee. Charlie! Joe! Carry him into my house, if you please!’
They looked irresolutely at the constable, but he waved them to stay where they were.
‘Mrs Longe, ma’am,’ he announced, in his loudest and most official voice, ‘this here vagrant is not a man. He is a beggar. And there is a law against them. Furthermore, he is not a member of this here parish. If he dies, this here parish has the expense of burying him!’
This statement brought them all to attention. But Charlotte became very still, and listened as though she could not believe what she was hearing.
‘Now then,’ said the constable, satisfied that he had everyone’s understanding, ‘put him into the wheelbarrow, and wheel him along to the far side of the turnpike road, and lay him on the grass, comfortable-like.’
‘You would leave him to die at the roadside?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Eh, don’t you worry yourself, ma’am,’ said the constable. ‘
He
don’t mind where he dies, bless you!’
And heard the crowd’s assent, and one or two laughs.
‘My dear Charlotte, you are making an exhibition of yourself, behaving in this fashion,’ said Mrs Graham in a low, hurried voice.
The other ladies nodded agreement, mouths pursed. Charlotte asked, with ominous calmness, ‘Do you believe the constable to be right, Mrs Graham?’
‘Of course he is right!’ cried the rector’s wife, relieved to see her hostess coming to her senses. ‘Pray do get up, and come inside with us. Do not distress yourself further. We thought’ — in a louder voice, for the benefit of the spectators — ‘that you were looking pale today!’
‘I have never felt better in myself than I do now!’ Charlotte replied, with supreme bitterness. ‘Stand aside, ma’am, if you will not help me. I see you have learned nothing from your husband’s sermon. Or would he, too, have passed by on the other side?’
‘Hypocrite!’ cried Phoebe, seeing her enemy retreat. ‘Whited sepulchre!’
Then she fainted into Sally’s arms.
‘Come, ladies,’ said Mrs Graham, mortally wounded. ‘This is no place for us!’
‘Mrs Longe,’ said the constable, sorely troubled, ‘he can’t die in this parish, ma’am, even if he is in your house!’
‘I shall also pay for his funeral, if need be,’ Charlotte answered.
She relinquished her hold of Simeon Judd and spoke to the crowd.
‘If any among you will help me, let them come forward. Would the rest please go about their business?’
Assistance was coming from two directions at once, unasked. Ambrose was already at his mother’s side, closely followed by Polly Slack. From the back of the crowd Jack Ackroyd pushed his way, crying, ‘Let me through, damn you. Let me through!’
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Constable Letherhead, soothing them, ‘Mrs Longe has agreed to pay all expenses. The parish will be quite satisfied as to that. We’re all human beings, I hope.’
‘You nincompoop!’ roared Jack Ackroyd, reaching him. ‘There is a law against what you are doing!’
‘A law, sir? What law, sir?’ asked Letherhead, aghast
‘It has not long been passed, you jackass, but this Act takes away from the parish its powers of preventive expulsion. In brief, constable, you have no right to move a dying man out of the parish!’
‘Ah, the new law!’ said Constable Letherhead, who had never heard of it. ‘It’s been passed, has it, sir? That’s good news, that is, sir.’
‘If I were you, my brave fellow,’ said Jack Ackroyd, looking hard at the constable to frighten him still more, ‘I should send these people away as soon as possible, lest Higher Authorities hear of your criminal stupidity.’
‘Yes, sir. At once, sir.’
‘Or you might all be arrested and tried for taking part in judicial murder!’ shouted Jack to the silent crowd.
As fast as they had hurried to watch they hurried off, while the headmaster stooped to lift Simeon Judd, who was not at all heavy.
‘Bring his bundle, Ambrose!’ he ordered. ‘Lead the way, Mrs Longe. You, girl, what’s-a-name, fetch one of the doctors. You, other what’s-a-name, put that lady on the hall floor and get a pair of blankets.’
‘Yes, Mr Awkright,’ said Polly, and ran up the High Street.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sally, preparing to lay down her burden.
But Phoebe suddenly recovered, said, ‘Thor of the dying man,’ and shut herself in the parlour; where Cicely joined her, afraid.
‘I would advise you to leave him in the hall, Mrs Longe,’ Jack Ackroyd continued, ‘until you know what is the matter with him. If it is cholera or typhus or smallpox we are at risk in any event, but we need not spread it all over the house.’
‘I wish my mother were here,’ said Charlotte. ‘She would know what to do.’
‘You have done well enough,’ said Jack, which was high praise from him.
He lifted Judd’s eyelid and felt his pulse, turned over his hands and looked compassionately at them.
‘He has worked hard all his life,’ he said quietly, ‘and they grudge him a death.’
‘Why, what have we here?’ said the dry voice of Matthew Standish. ‘They tell me you are fetching vagabonds from the hedgerows, Mrs Longe! Well, you will find plenty of employment. Let me see him, if you please.’
He examined the man carefully, nostrils distended, for Judd stank. Then called for a basin of warm water and a towel.
‘He has been dying these many months,’ said Dr Standish, washing his hands thoughtfully, ‘and will not be long over it, You need fear nothing for yourselves, apart from his body and head vermin. His sickness is his own.’
‘His sickness is a social one!’ said Jack Ackroyd savagely, of the emaciated creature.
‘That too,’ said Matthew Standish coolly, ‘and he is not the only one to suffer it!’
‘Is there anything we can do for him?’ Charlotte asked.
‘You could clean him, Mrs Longe, and keep him warm. Give him tea and slops if he asks for nourishment. No more. But I warn you that if this story is bruited about you shall have every beggar in Christendom knocking on your door! Let me take him to the hospital. There we can make his last hours comfortable, and his corpse will serve medical purposes, thus saving you innumerable complications.’
‘No, I thank you, sir,’ said Charlotte slowly. ‘I should feel I had in some manner betrayed him.’
‘Pure sentimentality,’ said Standish, ‘but I shall not dispute the matter with you. No, no, ma’am,’ waving away his fee. ‘If you must be so foolish I shall not charge you for it — unless it becomes a habit!’
Simeon Judd opened his eyes, though they saw nothing. Took three quiet breaths. Was gone from them.
His onlookers formed a tableau for a few moments: Polly holding the basin, Sally with her apron to her mouth, Charlotte clasping her hands and Ambrose standing protectively by her, Jack Ackroyd about to speak, the doctor in the act of putting on his hat. Then they all bent over Simeon Judd.
‘His sorrows are done,’ said Matthew Standish, and closed the empty eyes.
‘Mrs Longe,’ said Jack Ackroyd, too loudly in the quiet hall, ‘I shall look to the arrangements for you, and with your permission will pay for the funeral myself.’
‘Another sentimentalist!’ the doctor remarked, covering the empty face.
‘Someone should settle the debt,’ said Jack, taking it upon himself.
‘I commend your good heart,’ said Matthew Standish cheerfully, ‘and hope it does not lead you into too much expense! Mrs Longe, you would oblige me by lying down until suppertime. You have sustained an emotional shock, and I do not wish to be fetched back here in half an hour for a fit of hysterics. Polly, will you see to your mistress?’
‘Yes, Dr Sandwich,’ Polly replied, curtseying.
‘Then good-day to you all!’
And the doctor departed, as lean and trim as any youngster, only his rheumatism conceding his sixty years.