Johnny Ludlow First Series Part 98

The strike have lasted long, you see, sir. Any way, she's too weak to take much of anything."

"If I--if I could bring some beef-tea--or some wine--would it do her good?"

"It might just be the saving of her life, Mr. Ludlow, sir."

I went galloping home through the snow. Mrs. Todhetley was stoning raisins in the dining-room for the Christmas puddings. Telling her the news in a heap, I sat down to get my breath.

"Ah, I was afraid so," she said quietly, and without surprise. "I feared there might be another baby at the h.o.a.rs' by this time."

"Another baby at the h.o.a.rs'!" cried Tod, looking up from my new Shakespeare that he was skimming. "How is it going to get fed?"

"I fear that's a problem none of us can solve, Joseph," said she.

"Well, folk must be daft, to go on collecting a heap more mouths together, when there's nothing to feed them on," concluded Tod, dropping his head into the book again. Mrs. Todhetley was slowly wiping her fingers on the damp cloth, and looking doubtful.

"Joseph, your papa's not in the way and I cannot speak to him--_do_ you think I might venture to send something to poor Eliza under the circ.u.mstances?"

"Send and risk it," said Tod, in his prompt manner. "_Of course._ As to the Pater--at the worst, he'll only storm a bit. But I fancy he would be the first to send help himself. He wouldn't let her die for the want of it."

"Then I'll despatch Hannah at once."

h.o.a.r was down by the bed when Hannah got there, holding a drop of ale to his wife's lips. Mr. Cole was standing by with his hat on.

"_Ale!_" exclaimed Hannah to the surgeon. "May she take _that_?"

"Bless me, yes," said he, "and do her good."

Hannah followed him outside the door when he was leaving. "How will it go with her, sir?" she asked. "She looks dreadfully ill."

"Well," returned the Doctor, "I think the night will about see the end of it."

The words frightened Hannah. "Oh, my goodness!" she cried. "What's the matter with her that she should die?"

"Famine and worry have been the matter with her. What she will die of is exhaustion. She has had a sharpish turn just now, you understand; and has no stamina to bring her up again."

It was late in the afternoon when Hannah came home again. There was no change, she said, for the better or the worse. Eliza still lay as much like one dead as living.

"It's quite a picter to see the poor little creatures sitting on the bare floor and quiet as mice, never speaking but in a whisper," cried Hannah, as she shook the snow from her petticoats on the mat. "It's just as if they had an instinct of what is coming."

The Squire, far from being angry, wanted to send over half the house.

It was not Eliza's fault, he said, it was the strike's--and he hoped with all his heart she'd get through it. Helping the men's wives in ordinary was not to be thought of; but when it came to dying, that was a different matter. In the evening, between dinner and tea, I offered to go over and see whether any progress had been made. Being curious on the point themselves, they said yes.

The snow was coming down smartly. My great-coat and hat were soon white enough for me to be taken for a ghost enjoying the air at night.

Knocking at the h.o.a.rs' door gently, it was opened by Jacky. He asked me to go in.

To my surprise they were again alone--Eliza and the children. Mrs. Watts had gone home to put her own flock to bed; and h.o.a.r was out. 'Liza sat on the hearthstone, the sleeping bundle on her lap.

"Father's a-went to fetch Mr. Cole," said Jacky. "Mother began a talking queer--dreams, like--and it frightened him. He told us to mind her till he run back with the Doctor."

Looking down, I thought she was delirious. Her eyes were wide open and glistening, a scarlet spot shone on her cheeks. She began talking to me.

Or rather to the air: for I'm sure she knew no one.

"A great bright place it is, up there; all alight and shining. Silvery, like the stars. Oh, it's beautiful! The people be in white, and no strikes can come in!"

"She've been a-talking about the strikes all along," whispered Jacky, who was kneeling on the mattress. "Mother! Mother, would ye like a drop o' the wine?"

Whether the word mother aroused her, or the boy's voice--and she had always loved Jacky with a great love--she seemed to recognize him. He raised her head as handy as could be, and held the tea-cup to her lips.

It was half full of wine; she drank it all by slow degrees, and revived to consciousness.

"Master Johnny!" she said then in a faint tone.

I could not help the tears filling my eyes as I knelt down by her in Jacky's place. She knew she was dying. I tried to say a word or two.

"It's the leaving the children, Master Johnny, to strikes and things o' that kind, that's making it so hard for me to go. The world's full o' trouble: look at what ours has been since the strike set in! I'd not so much mind _that_ for them, though--for the world here don't last over long, and perhaps it's a'most as good to be miserable as easy in it--if I thought they'd all come to me in the bright place afterwards. But--when one's clammed with famine and what not, it's a sore temptation to do wrong. Lord, bring them to me!" she broke forth, suddenly clasping her hands. "Lord Jesus, pray for them, and save them!"

She was nothing but skin and bone. Her hands fell, and she began plucking at the blanket. You might have heard a pin drop in the room.

The frightened children hardly breathed.

"I shall see your dear mamma, Master Johnny. I was at her death-bed; 'twas me mostly waited on her in her sickness. If ever a sainted lady went straight to heaven, 'twas her. When I stood over her grave I little thought my own ending was to be so soon. Strikes! Nothing but strikes--and famine, and bad tempers, and blows. Lord Jesus, wash us white from our sins, and take us all to that better world! No strikes there; no strikes there."

She was going off her head again. The door opened, and h.o.a.r, the Doctor, and Mrs. Watts all came in together.

Mrs. Todhetley went over through the snow in the morning. Eliza h.o.a.r had died in the night, and lay on the mattress, her wasted face calm and peaceful. h.o.a.r and the children had migrated to the kitchen at the back, a draughty place hardly large enough for the lot to turn round in. The eldest girl was trying to feed the baby with a tea-spoon.

"What are you giving it, Eliza?" asked Mrs. Todhetley.

"Sugar and water, with a sup o' milk in't, please, ma'am."

"I hope you are contented, Jacob h.o.a.r, now you have killed your wife."

Very harsh words, those for Mrs. Todhetley to speak: and she hastened to soften them. But, as she said afterwards, the matter altogether was a cruel folly and sin, making her heart burn with shame. "That is, h.o.a.r, with the strike; for it is the strike that has killed her."

h.o.a.r, who had been sitting with his head in the chimney, noticing no one, burst into a sudden flood of tears, and sobbed for a minute or two.

Mrs. Todhetley was giving the children a biscuit apiece from her bag.

"I did it all for the best," said h.o.a.r, presently. "'Twasn't me that originated the strike. I but joined in it with the rest of my mates."

"And their wives and families are in no better plight than yours."

"n.o.body can say I've not done my duty as a husband and a father," cried h.o.a.r. "I've not been a drunkard, nor a rioter, nor a spendthrift. I've never beat her nor swore at her, as some of 'em does."

"Well, she is lying _there_; and the strike has brought her to it. Is it so, or not?"

h.o.a.r did not answer: only caught his breath with a sound of pain.

"It seems to me, h.o.a.r, that the strikes cannot be the good things you think for," she said, her voice now full of pity for the man. "They don't bring luck with them; on the contrary, they bring a great deal of ill-luck. It is you workmen that suffer; mostly in your wives and children. I do not pretend to judge whether strikes may be good from a political point of view, I am not clever; but they do tell very hardly upon your poor patient wives and little ones."