Part 3

Mr Abbot was not a man of business. He did not at once realise what being the registered owner of these fifty shares meant. He denounced the roguery of the directors, and vowed that if ever again he had money to spare, into land it should go, nowhere else. He had an idea that no more than the money which he had invested would be lost; but when, after a few days, he gathered from the newspapers the true meaning of unlimited liability, his heart grew sick within him. The rental of his estate was about six thousand a year; so, when call after call was made on the shareholders, William Abbot knew that he was a ruined man, and lamented his folly for not having entailed the estates. Lands, house, furniture, plate, all came to the hammer; and so far as county people and landed gentry, the Abbots were extinct. Mrs Abbot had a jointure of some five hundred a year, on which the unfortunate couple were fain to live as best they could. They took a house at Weymouth, and in that retired watering-place mourned their woes in genteel obscurity.

So Frank Abbot came back from Switzerland to begin the world on his own account, with nothing but a college degree, a perfect constitution, and a few hundred pounds scraped together by the sale of his personal effects. How should he earn his living? He was sorely tempted to emigrate. He had the frame and muscles for hard work, and outdoor life would suit him. Yet he shrank from the idea of giving up as beaten in his native land. Other men had made their way; why should not he? He felt a consciousness of a certain ability which necessity might force into full play. His mother suggested the church. ‘A clergyman of good family can always marry a rich wife, and that you are bound to do now.’ Frank shrugged his broad shoulders, and thought sadly of his promised wife, so many thousands of miles away. Eventually, he decided to read for the bar. He knew it would be slow and dreary work to win success there—that for many years he must be prepared to endure penury; but a career might be made. If a hundred fail, one succeeds—why should he not be that one?

Millicent must be told the bad news. He had no right to keep a girl’s love during all the years which must elapse before he could offer her a home. He must at least release her from her vows. If—and as he believed it would be—she refused to be released, they must wait and hope. Now that the reality of marrying on nothing came home to him, he saw what it meant—what misery it must entail. Now that the earning his own living, of which he had spoken so bravely when there was no need of his doing so, was forced upon him, he became quite aware of the sacrifices he must make. He was no desponding coward, and indeed had little doubt as to his ultimate success. He felt that he could bear hardship himself; but he could not bear it if Millicent must also share it. At anyrate it was right she should know the change in his fortunes. So he wrote a few words: ‘MY DARLING—We are all ruined. I am going to try and make a living as a barrister. Of course I must now release you from every promise.’ He signed his name; but before sealing the letter, could not help adding: ‘But I love you more than ever.’ Then he sent the letter to Millicent’s aunt, and begged that it might be forwarded to her niece.

That letter never reached its destination. Whether it was mislaid or misdirected—whether a mail-bag was lost either on the voyage or on the long land journey—whether Miss Keene’s aunt, who had learned what reverses had befallen the Abbots, simply threw it on the fire, will never be known. All that can be said is, Millicent never received it; and after months had passed, Frank, who was looking eagerly for the overdue answer, grew very miserable, and began to doubt the love of woman.

* * * * *

Five long years have passed by. Frank Abbot is now a barrister of nearly three years’ standing. He works hard, is frequently on circuit, and if, as yet, he has not achieved any brilliant forensic triumph, he is neither briefless nor without hope. Some small cases have been intrusted to him, and he finds the number of these slowly but surely increasing, and knows that if the opportunity comes, and if, when it does come, he may be able to seize it and make the most of it, success may soon be his. Even now he makes enough to supply the modest wants to which he has tutored himself. But for some time after the last of his little capital had vanished, he had been hardly pressed. Indeed, in order to live at all, he had been compelled to accept some aid from his parents’ reduced means. They gave this readily enough, as, with all their faults, they loved their son. Even to this day, Frank looks back with a shudder upon one or two years of his life.

The five years have changed him from a boy to a man. He is handsome as ever, but his look is more serious; his features express even more character. He has given up all dreams of the woolsack; but is conscious of possessing fair abilities, a good address, a commanding presence, and a great deal of ready self-confidence. He feels that in a few years’ time he may have a home to share, if the woman he loves is still willing to share it. He has not again written to her. He has heard nothing from her, although the time by which he promised to claim her has long passed. He is, however, resolved that as soon as he sees the future fairly promising, he will seek her, and learn whether she is still true to him; or whether the sweetest episode of his life must be linked with the memory of a woman’s faithlessness and inconstancy. He sighs as he thinks of the time which has elapsed since she waved him that last farewell at Plymouth. ‘She may be married, years ago,’ he says, ‘and have three or four children by now.’ Then he thinks of her steadfast eyes, and knows that he wrongs her—blames himself for his mistrust. To sum up, Frank Abbot’s constancy remains firm; but he is obliged to do what thousands of other men must do, hope for better days, working, meanwhile, with might and main to bring the dawn of those better days near.

Does he regret the loss of his fortune much? Of course he does, being neither a fool nor of a superhuman nature. Many a day, as he sits in wig and gown in the stifling court, listening to learned arguments on cases in which he has not the remotest interest, his soul longs for a day with the pheasants, a run with the Duke’s hounds, or a ride round the home-farm; and he anathematises all joint-stock banks as roundly as his father may be supposed to have done. But, nevertheless, Frank is not a soured man. He is somewhat grave and self-contained, but pleasant company enough to the few men whom he chooses to call his friends.

He has not been near Chewton Hall since the family downfall. It had been bought, with a great part of the furniture, by a rich London merchant, whose name, although he had heard it at the time of the sale, had slipped from his mind. Frank cared little who held it. He knew it is only in romances that a ruined family regains possession of its kingdom. Some day he intended to run down and have a look at the old place which he had loved so well; although he feared the sight would not improve the tenor of his mind, or make him less inclined to rail at Fortune.

Just about this time Frank made a new acquaintance. It was long vacation. The Lord Chief-justice was yachting; his brother-judges, Queen’s Counsel, and learned leaders, were recruiting their jaded energies as it best pleased them; gay juniors had thrown their wigs into their boxes, and were away on various holiday pursuits. Frank, however, who had recently succeeded in getting some occasional work on a journal, and who hoped to get more, was still in London. One morning, a gentleman, who wished to see Mr Abbot, was shown into his chambers. The visitor was a tall middle-aged man, strongly built, well dressed, and with pleasant features. He looked like one who had led a hard life, and lines on his brow told of trouble. His hands were large and brown—it was evident they had not been idle in their day. Not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, as we conventionally use, or abuse, that word, but a noticeable, out-of-the-common man. He gave Frank a sharp quick glance, as if trying to gauge his intellect and powers. Apparently satisfied, he took the chair offered him, and explained his errand. He had a lawsuit pending, and wished Mr Abbot to conduct the case. Frank interposed smilingly, and told his new client that it was etiquette for his instructions to come through a solicitor. He explained that a barrister and the man whose cause he pleaded must communicate through a third party. His visitor apologised for his ignorance about such matters, and said he would see his solicitor. However, after the apology was accepted, instead of bowing himself out, Mr John Jones—for by that name he called himself—entered into a general kind of conversation with Frank. He spoke easily and pleasantly on a variety of topics, and when at last he left the room, shook hands most cordially with the young man, and hoped he should meet him again soon.

‘Wonder who he is?’ said Frank, laughing over the sudden friendliness this stranger had exhibited. ‘Anyway, I hope he’ll make his solicitors send me that brief.’

However, no brief came; but for the next few days Frank Abbot was always tumbling across Mr John Jones. He met him in the street as he went to and from his chambers. Mr Jones always stopped him, shook hands, and as often as not, turned and walked beside him. Frank began to like the man. He was very amusing, and seemed to know every country under the sun. Indeed, he declared he was a greater stranger to London than to any other capital. He was a great smoker; and as soon as he found that Frank did not object to the smell of good tobacco in his chambers, scarcely a day went by without his paying him a visit and having a long chat over a cigar. Frank was bound to think that Mr John Jones had taken a great liking to him. Perhaps, the man wanted a friend. As he said, he knew no one in London, and no one knew him.

So young Abbot drifted into intimacy with this lonely man, and soon quite looked forward to the sound of his cheerful voice and the fragrance of those particularly good cigars he smoked. He even, at Mr Jones’ urgent request, ran down to the seaside for a couple of days with him, and found the time pass very pleasantly in his society.

Although the young man was very reticent on the subject of his family’s misfortune, Mr Jones had somehow arrived at the conclusion that he was not rolling in wealth. He made no secret of the fact that he himself was absurdly rich. ‘I say, Abbot,’ he remarked one day, ‘if you want any money to push yourself up with, let me know.’ Perhaps Mr Jones fancied that judgeships were to be bought.

‘I don’t want any,’ said Frank shortly.

‘Don’t take offence. I said, if you do. Your pride—the worst part of you. It’s very hard a man can only help a fellow like you by dying and leaving him money. I don’t want to die just yet.’

Frank laughed. ‘I want no money left me. I shouldn’t take yours if you left it to me.’

‘Well, you’ll have to some day, you see.’ Then Mr John Jones lit another cigar from the stump of the old one, and went his way; leaving Frank more puzzled than ever with his new friend.

But the next day an event occurred which drove Mr John Jones, money, and everything save one thing, out of his head: Millicent Keene was in England—in London!

When he saw her letter lying on his table, Frank Abbot feared it could not be real. It would fade away like a fairy bank-note. No; before him lay a few lines in her handwriting: ‘MY DEAR FRANK—I have returned at last. I am at No. 4 Caxton Place.—Yours, MILLICENT KEENE.’

Early as it was, he rushed out of his office, jumped into a cab, and sped away to the address she gave him.

We may pass over the raptures, the embraces, the renewed vows, the general delicious character of that long-deferred meeting. We may suppose the explanation of the lost letter accounting for the girl’s silence; and we may picture her sympathy with her lover’s misfortunes, and her approval of the manly way in which he had gone to work to retrieve them, in some degree. Let us imagine them very very happy, sitting hand in hand in a room at No. 4 Caxton Place; Millicent, by-the-by, looking more beautiful than ever, her charms not lessened by the look of joy in her dark eyes.

Their first transports are over. They have descended to mundane things. In fact, Frank is now telling her that he believes he can count on so many hundreds a year. What does his darling think?

Miss Keene purses up her pretty mouth and knits her brows. To judge by appearances, she might be the most mercenary young woman. Frank waits her reply anxiously.

‘I think we may manage,’ she says. ‘I have been accustomed to poverty all my life, you know.’

Frank would have vowed to work his fingers to the bones before she should want anything; but remembering just in time that his profession worked with the tongue instead of the hands, checked himself. He thanked her with a kiss.

‘When shall we be married?’ he said.

She looked up at him shyly. ‘Would you think it very dreadful if I said the sooner the better? In fact, Frank, I have come from Australia to marry you. If you had forgotten me, I should have gone straight back.’

‘Next week?’ asked Frank, scarcely believing his own happiness. ‘Will next week be too soon? One advantage of being poor and living in lodgings is, that we can be married without any bother “about a house.”’

Millicent gave him to understand that next week would do. She was staying with some distant relative. No one’s consent had to be asked. She had told her father all. The day Frank chose, she would be his wife.

‘How is your father? I forgot to ask,’ said Frank.

‘Much the same as ever,’ answered Millicent in a way which inferred that Mr Keene’s struggles to redeem fortune were as great as before.

Then she dismissed Frank until to-morrow. He went home walking on air, and, like a dutiful son, wrote to Mrs Abbot, telling her that Millicent had returned, and next week would marry him. Mrs Abbot’s reply may be given here:

‘MY DEAR FRANK—I _say_ nothing. I am too much _horrified_. If any young man was ever called upon to marry money and build up the fallen fortunes of a family, it is you. My last hope is gone. The obstinacy of your character I know too well. If I thought I could turn you from your purpose, I would come and _kneel at your feet_. If I knew Miss Keene’s address, I would make one last appeal to her. She, I believe, was a sensible young woman.—Your affectionate MOTHER.’

COMMON ERRORS IN DOMESTIC MEDICINE.

BY AN OLD PRACTITIONER.

Among the various passions which are inherent in the human breast, none is stronger or more evident than the desire which every one manifests to practise the healing art in some form or other, either on himself or—more frequently—on his fellow-creatures; a propensity which betrays itself in the gratuitous administration of physic, the infliction of minor surgery, or, if these suggestions be not favourably received by the patient, in copious advice of a hygienic nature. This is particularly the case with the gentler sex. Every woman is a physician at heart, and nothing is more refreshing than to sit and listen to two ladies in confidential medical conversation respecting the merits of their favourite nostrums. It is to them that homœopathy especially appeals. What more delightful spectacle can be found than that of a fair amateur ‘doctress’ with her book, her case of phials and little gold spoon, dispensing globules to her family, to her servants, to her neighbours, to any one and every one; and to enjoy at the same time the sweet reflection that she is not doing a particle of harm! Nevertheless, there are some not unfrequent mistakes in the application of so-called household remedies, excellent in themselves; and to call attention to these, and to a few popular fallacies on the subject of health and disease, is the object of the present paper.

Let us commence with that finest of domestic institutions, the poultice—bread, linseed, or mustard—soothing, fomenting, or stimulating, according to circumstances. There are few remedies in the pharmacopœia of wider beneficial application in surgery and medicine than this; yet terrible mischief often follows its injudicious use. A man has a cough, or his child wheezes with a ‘tightness on the chest,’ and on goes a poultice straightway. So far, so good; in all probability they wake up next morning greatly relieved. But the father is off to his daily business, and the child runs about and plays as usual, while—since they feel so much better—neither takes any precaution, by extra clothing or otherwise, to guard against the consequences of the poultice itself. The skin and subjacent tissues have been rendered lax by the heat and moisture, the blood-vessels are dilated, and the circulation of the part increased; to use a common expression, the ‘pores’ are open, and there is thus a tenfold liability to catch cold, especially in winter-time, when these things most frequently happen. Ordinary colds which are said to have ‘run’ into congestion of the lungs, bronchitis, or pneumonia, may often be traced to their serious or fatal termination through the _undefended_ use of a poultice.

It should be borne in mind that a common poultice—such as is made of linseed meal or bread—is merely a vehicle for the application of damp heat—a continuous fomentation, in fact—and has no specific curative action. A muslin bag filled with bran, or flannels dipped in hot water, have precisely the same effect, but are not so conveniently employed, as they have to be more frequently renewed. A poultice should always be thoroughly mixed and homogeneous in consistence throughout; just so wet as to permit of its retaining the mould of the cup when turned out, but not wet enough to exude water by its own weight when lightly applied. A _hot_ poultice should never be allowed to remain on after its outer part is less than the temperature of the blood, nor must it get dry and caked. As a general rule, it may be said that bread makes a better cataplasm than linseed meal, but requires to be changed oftener. There are, of course, special medical reasons in occasional cases for the preference of one or the other, but such instances scarcely come within the scope of this article. Well-mashed carrots make a capital soothing application, and a poultice composed of tea-leaves is, owing to its slight astringent action, generally suitable when one is required about the region of the eye. An abominable mixture of soap and sugar is very popular as a local remedy in some parts of England, and is credited with great ‘drawing’ properties. On the other hand, it is good to know that the old-fashioned liniment of hartshorn and oil is one of the best embrocations ever invented under ordinary circumstances, and that therapeutical research amongst all the drugs that the vegetable and mineral kingdoms afford has never discovered an improvement on salt and water as a gargle for simple sore throat.

What British home would _be_ a home without its little roll of sticking or court plaster? How often is it that little tearful eyes look mistily down on a poor scratched finger, held carefully out in the other hand, as if there were some danger of its coming off, while mamma cuts a thin yellow strip and wraps it round the injured member with comforting words, all lamentation being temporarily reduced to an occasional sob in the interest of the operation. That the sticking-plaster exercises a fine moral effect in such a case, there can be no doubt; but I fear there is as little doubt that it often does more harm than good from a physical point of view, and this arises from the fallacious belief in it as a healing agent. The only real service that sticking-plaster does is to hold two cut surfaces together while Nature’s process necessary for their union is being completed, acting for a slight wound as stitches do in a deep one. But to cover an abrasion or raw surface with it is worse than useless, as it only irritates it. The plea is often advanced that it serves to keep dust and dirt off. A bit of wet linen rag, however, would be far better for that purpose.

Most of the ordinary household cures for chilblains are well enough in their way, but an unfortunate mistake is often committed in applying certain of them, which are fit only for the chilblains in their early stage, to broken ones, setting up thereby great inflammation and producing very painful sores. A broken chilblain is a little ulcer, and must be treated as such. As for the thousand-and-one remedies in vogue for corns, it is wonderful that they should exist at all, since nine people out of ten could cure their own without any application whatever, by wearing properly fitting boots and shoes. It is irregularity of pressure which creates corns; boots which are too big being as productive of the tiny torments as tight ones. A wet rag covered with oiled silk—to retain the moisture—and bound round the corn, is one of the best cures.

A very common but reprehensible practice is that of holding a burn as close to the grate as possible, ‘to draw the fire out’—not out of the fireplace—but from the injured part. It is quite feasible to conceive that such a proceeding may give ease by deadening sensation in some instances; but it by no means follows that it does good or expedites recovery—indeed, we shall see that in such a case the loss of sensation really proves further damage to the tissues. Burns have been divided by surgeons into six classes: (1) Simple scorching, sufficient only to redden the surface. (2) Blistering; the cuticle raised and forming little bladders of water. (3) The skin denuded of its cuticle. This is the most painful stage of all, as it leaves the nerve-ends exposed. (4) Destruction of the entire thickness of the skin; painless or nearly so, because the sensitive nerve-bulbs are destroyed. (5) Destruction of all the soft parts; and (6) charring of the bone—two conditions very difficult to imagine as co-existent with any remnant of life. It can thus be readily understood how a burn of the third order of magnitude can be converted by additional heat into the fourth, and temporary relief from pain purchased by transforming a trifling injury into a serious one, liable to be followed by severe illness and permanent deformity. A most mysterious cause of death after burns is the ulceration and bursting of a certain blood-vessel in the stomach. The connection between the two has never been discovered. People talk about this or that being good for a burn, but not for a scald, or _vice versâ_; but practically no distinction is to be drawn between the two, further than that, as we know the highest temperature of water, we know the utmost limit of injury in a scald, whereas there is no limit to the possibilities of a burn. To keep the air from both is the main object in treatment. Cook, who generally appears on the scene of the disaster with her flour-dredge, is a very efficient surgeon for burns and scalds of the first degree—this little scientific technicality will comfort the sufferer marvellously; but where the skin is raised or broken, something of an oily nature—Carron oil, for instance—should be substituted. Cover it up with lots of cotton-wool, as though you wished to keep it as warm as possible; and, mind, no soap and sugar on any account!