Part 7

Perhaps a wild idea of escaping into the cold, dark night outside, aided by a sheet or blanket, flashed through her brain. If so, she soon realized that it would not be practicable. The window was not high, but it was small, and divided by thick, old-fashioned bars of iron. To get out was impossible.

As she stood considering, a thin, flickering moonbeam crept in and partially lighted up the room. It fell on to the door that led into the pedlar's chamber, and showed her something dark and slimy that was flowing slowly--slowly from under it into her room. She did not cry out or fall senseless. She bent down and put her hand into it, and saw that it was blood--her poor old friend's life-blood--for she knew now beyond all doubt that he had been murdered for the sake of his supposed wealth.

She knew she was helpless till morning. To get out of the house was impossible, for to do so she must pass down the stairs and through the room below, where probably they were either sleeping or watching. If she had courage and could only let them think she knew and suspected nothing, she might still escape. Surely they would not dare to murder her also, for they knew her husband would be expecting her next day, and would be looking for her if she did not come.

With another prayer, this time uttered shiveringly, for the soul of the pedlar, she nerved herself to get into bed again, and lay there till morning with her child against her heart; gazing with staring, sleepless eyes at the door which divided her from that awful room; keeping surely the most terrible vigil that ever woman kept.

At last the morning dawned, clear and bright. A frost had set in, and the roads were clean and hard, the sky was blue. If it had not been for that ghastly stain that had crept across the far end of her room, she might almost have thought that the events of the night had been but a fearful dream.

Her child awoke, fresh and smiling, and she could hear them stirring in the living room below. She felt that now, indeed, the hardest part of her task was still before her. On a little table by the side of her bed there was a small, cracked looking-glass. When she was dressed she looked into it and saw that it reflected a face death-like in its pallor, with burning lips and feverish eyes. She took the bottle from her pocket again and gulped down the rest of its contents. It sent a flush into her cheeks and steadied the sick trembling that was shaking her through and through.

Without stopping to think or look round again, she took up her boy and descended the stairs, and entered the room where they had supped on the previous night.

The old woman was its sole occupant now. She was bending over the fire frying something for breakfast, and the table in the centre of the room was prepared for the meal. She looked if possible more untidy and slovenly than when Babette had last seen her, and greeted the girl with a feeble smile.

Then she poured her out a cup of coffee, and Babette had sat down and begun to sip it (for she knew she must make a pretence of breakfasting) when the eldest son came in. There was a very uneasy look upon his evil-looking face.

"How are you?" he asked, sullenly, as he sat down opposite her. "I hope, rested. Did you sleep well?"

Never afterwards did she know how she found courage to answer him as she did, quietly and firmly:--

"Yes, very well, thank you. But my friend--he must have over-slept himself--why is he not down?"

The old woman dropped a plate with a clatter and turned round. The man looked Babette straight in the face as he replied, and she met his glance with one just as steady.

"The pedlar is gone," he said, as he sugared his coffee carefully. "He paid his bill and was off before seven. You will probably see him in Brussels, for he was going there."

"Yes," repeated Babette, "I shall very likely meet him in Brussels, but I don't even know his name. And I, too, good people, ought to be starting. The morning is fine, and walking will be easy." She drank down her coffee as she spoke and rose. "I cannot eat," she exclaimed, seeing that they both looked suspiciously at the thick slice of currant-bread, that lay untouched on her plate. "I think I am excited at the thought of seeing my husband again. It seems so long since we parted, and now we shall meet so soon."

In her own ears her voice sounded far away and unnatural, but they did not seem to notice anything strange in her. The old woman, with a meek "Thank you," took the humble payment she tendered, and they let her go; only the big, burly eldest son stood at the door and watched her as she went slowly down the little pathway and out through the creaking gate into the snowy road. She only looked back once, and then she saw that a dingy signboard hung in front of the house. The picture of what was meant for a cow, and had once been white, was depicted on it, and the words "A la Vache Blanche" were clumsily painted underneath. So the house was an inn, evidently, and as Babette read the words she dimly remembered having heard, long ago, that there was an inn of that name not far from Brussels. It was kept by some people named Marac, whose characters were anything but good, and who had been implicated in several robberies that had taken place some years before, although the utmost efforts of the police had failed to trace any crime directly home to them.

"Oh, heavens! Why did I not see that sign last night?" the girl thought, despairingly, as she trudged along the hard, frosty road. "It would have saved his life and perhaps my reason."

She sped along faster and faster, for the house was now quite out of sight. In the distance the way began to wind up-hill, and a stunted, leafless wood straggled along one side of the highway. Babette was just considering whether going through it would shorten her journey, when a woman, dressed in the ordinary peasant costume of the country, emerged from it and came towards her with quick, firm steps. She was tall and rather masculine looking. The black Flemish cloak she wore hung round her in straight, thick folds. She carried a market basket on one arm; a neat white cloth concealing the eggs and butter that probably lay underneath.

"Good-day," she said, in thick, guttural tones, as she reached Babette. "Are you on the way to Brussels?"

Babette made way for her to pass, somewhat shyly.

"Yes," she said, "and I am in haste; but the roads are heavy and I have my baby to carry."

As she answered, her eyes happened to fall on the stranger's right hand, which was ungloved and clasping the basket. And as she looked her heart seemed suddenly to quiver and stand still, for across that strong right hand there ran a deep red scar, precisely similar to the one she had noticed on the previous night on the hand of the youngest brother at the "Vache Blanche."

It did not take long for the whole horrible truth to flash across her. Doubtless they had felt insecure after their terrible deed, and the youngest Marac had been dispatched after her, disguised as a woman, with instructions to way-lay her by some shorter cut, in order to find out if she was really ignorant of the frightful way in which the pedlar had met his untimely end.

As these thoughts chased each other through her mind, she felt as if her great terror was slowly blanching her face, and her limbs began to tremble till she could hardly drag herself over the ground. But her baby's warm little heart, beating so closely against her own, once more gave her strength. She dropped her eyes so that she might no longer see that awful hand, and tottered on by the new-comer's side, striving to imagine that it was indeed only a harmless peasant woman who was walking by her and trying to remember that every step was bringing her nearer to Brussels and protection. Her companion glanced at her curiously, and Babette shivered, for she fancied she saw suspicion in the look.

"You seem tired." she, or rather he, said, always speaking in the same low, thick tones. "Brussels is barely two miles off, and it is yet early, but perhaps you have not rested well. Where did you sleep?"

Too well did the girl know why that question was asked her, and now that her first sickening horror was over, her brave spirit nerved itself once more.

"I was journeying with a friend yesterday," she replied, "when the snow-storm overtook us. Luckily we met a man whose home lay in our road. He was very good, and took us there and gave us supper and beds."

The stranger laughed.

"A good Samaritan, indeed! And your friend? Where is he now? Did he find his hosts so hospitable that he was unable to tear himself away?"

"No," said Babette, gently, "he started early; before I came down he was far on his road. They were very good to me, and gave me coffee before I left. I am a poor woman, and could do but little to repay them. The two francs I gave them were almost my last."

This speech, uttered in such a soft, even voice--for Babette had schooled herself well by now--seemed to satisfy her companion, and they walked on side by side in silence for what seemed to the poor girl the longest hour she had ever passed.

At last, in the far distance there rose the spires and roofs of Brussels. The chiming of church bells came gaily towards them through the frosty air, and Babette knew that her terrible journey was well-nigh ended. At the entrance of the town the stranger stopped.

"Good-bye," she said, curtly; "I am late for the market, and must sell my eggs quickly or shall not get my price."

She turned down a side street and disappeared, and Babette felt her strength and mind both failing her now that she was out of danger. She staggered weakly into a big, dim church, by the door of which the parting happened to have taken place. Here she sank down in a heavy, death-like swoon in front of one of the side altars, with her baby wailing fretfully at her breast. When she came to herself again she was seated in the sacristy, and her hair and face were wet with the water they had flung over her. By her side stood a black-robed, kindly-faced curé and two or three women, who were trying to force some wine down her throat. By degrees her strength came back, and she raised herself and asked piteously for her child. Then, when he was in her arms, she told her story.

Wonder, horror, and bewilderment all dawned in turns on her hearers' countenances, and it was not until she unpinned her baby's shawls and handed the shabby pocket-book to the priest that they were quite certain they had not to deal with some poor, wandering lunatic. But when the money had been looked at and replaced, then, indeed, they saw the necessity for prompt action. The curé caught up his hat, and, after whispering a few words to the women, hurried out of the sacristy.

"He is gone to the police," said one. "Poor child"--laying her hand caressingly on the girl's damp hair--"what hast thou not passed through! Mercifully the mass was not over, so we found thee at once. Lie still and rest. Give me but thy husband's name and address, and in one little half-hour he shall be by thy side."

And so he was, and then, when she had been examined by the chief of the police and sobbed out her story all over again, from the shelter of Paul's broad arms, she felt safe at last. She went peacefully home with her husband, and after a good night's rest in the little rooms he had taken for her, she was able to listen calmly when told next day of the capture of the whole Marac family. They had been taken red-handed in their guilt, for had not the pedlar's body been found in a disused cellar under their house?

He was brought to Brussels to be buried, but his name was never known, and his money was never claimed. Probably, as he had told Babette, he had been a friendless old man, wandering alone from place to place.

The police were generous. Half his money was given to the poor and the rest was handed to Babette, and helped to furnish her new home. A simple stone cross now marks the unknown pedlar's grave: but flowers bloom there abundantly, and though nameless, he is not forgotten. Many a prayer is uttered for him both by Babette and her children, for the memory of that terrible New Year's Eve will never fade from her mind.

* * * * *

_Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark._

BY E. H. PITCAIRN.

With a heartfelt pang, hundreds read in an evening paper on October 20th of the serious illness of Sir Andrew Clark, so truly spoken of by George Eliot as "the beloved physician." Only the previous day he had presided at the Annual Harveian Oration as President of the College of Physicians.

He had more than one warning by severe attacks of illness, and by the recurrence of very painful symptoms, that he was over-taxing his strength, but they were unheeded. A patient once told him he had a horror of having a fit. "Put it away," said Sir Andrew; "I always do." There was only one person to whose fatigue and exhaustion he was indifferent that was himself.

It is said that he always hoped to die in his carriage or consulting-room, and it was in the latter, while talking with a lady (the Hon. Miss Boscawen) about some charity, that he was seized with the illness which ended so fatally. In his case it is no morbid curiosity which makes thousands interested in every detail concerning him.

On one day as many as six hundred people, several of whom were quite poor patients, called to ask how he was, and daily inquiries from all parts, including the Royal Family were a proof how much he was respected. Very peacefully, on Monday, November 6th, about five o'clock, he passed away, and on the following Saturday, after a service at Westminster Abbey, he was buried at Essendon, near Camfield, the property he had so lately bought and where he spent his last holiday. The world has already been told how the English nation showed their respect for the President of the College of Physicians, and in him the profession he so dearly loved was honoured.

What was the reason of this demonstration of respect? Because individuals seem to have felt a sense of irreparable _loss_. Very many have the idea that there are few others with his gifts who would respond in the same way to their demand for sympathy and help; for Sir Andrew's interest in each patient was real. There was an attractive force about him, difficult to describe, and which only those who knew him could understand, for he was nothing if not original. It is impossible in this brief sketch to give an adequate portrait of a great personality and to tell the story of his life's work. I shall but try to mention some of his distinctive qualities and characteristics, illustrated by a few facts. Two or three real incidents sometimes give a better idea of a man's character than pages of generalities.

Sir Andrew was born at Aberdeen in October, 1826. His father died when he was seven years old, and his mother at his birth. To the end of his life he regretted never having known a mother's love. His childhood, spent with two uncles, does not seem to have been very happy, and he had no brother or sister. He was educated at Aberdeen and Edinburgh, and at the former place took his degree.

As a young man he gained first medals in anatomy, physiology, chemistry, botany, materia medica, surgery, pathology, and practice of physic.

At twenty-two, in very delicate health, he entered the Royal Navy as assistant-surgeon, and was appointed to the hospital at Haslar. His subsequent medical career is pretty generally known. He obtained almost every possible honour, culminating in the Presidency of the College of Physicians for the lengthy term of six years.

Sir Andrew was devoted to the College. He made an excellent President, and a dignified, courteous, and just chairman. His successor will find it no easy task to fill his place.

He took an intense interest in all that concerned the welfare of the College, and gave many proofs of his affection, one of the last being a donation of £500 last year towards its redecoration. Not a great many laymen know the College by sight. It is a corner building in Trafalgar Square, the entrance facing Whitcomb Street. The meetings of the Fellows are held in the magnificent library, lined with 60,000 volumes, chiefly classics. Opening out of the library is the Censors' room, panelled with old oak, and hung with portraits of former Presidents, chiefly by old masters. At an examination the President sits at the end of the table with his back to the fireplace, the Registrar (Dr. Liveing) opposite, and the Censors on either side. In front of the President is a cushion with the Caduceus, the Mace, and the Golden Cane. It was in the library that Sir Andrew presided at the Harveian Oration the day before he was taken ill.

Sir Andrew could not be judged of by the surface. As Sir Joseph Phayres truly says: "I have known him intimately, and the more I knew him the more I respected and admired him." Those who knew him best loved him best. One has only to read how one leading man after another writes of him with enthusiastic appreciation (in the _Medical Journal_) to learn what his colleagues thought of his medical skill and personal character.

A bishop recently spoke of him as the truthful doctor: and a young girl, who from a small child had stayed with him, told me he would always correct himself if he had told an anecdote the least inaccurately; and one day this summer when walking round their garden with him she said the caterpillars had eaten all their gooseberry trees; "I mean the gooseberry _leaves_," she added. Sir Andrew immediately said, "I am glad you are particular to say what is exactly true"; but, she added, there was always _something_ to remember in everything he said. With regard to another point, a clergyman who knew Sir Andrew very intimately once told me that "No man of this century had a more keenly religious mind; he was so saturated with thoughts of God and so convinced that God had spoken to man. He was intensely religious, with a profound sense of the supernatural; he certainly was a great example to very busy men in the way he always managed to find time for church, and even when called away to a distance he would, if possible, go to a church near where he happened to be." In addition to these qualities, he was very just, sympathetic, and generous.

I have come across many friends who knew him well, and it is interesting to note that the same cardinal points seem to have struck everyone as the key-notes of his life. In almost identical words each one speaks of his strong faith, his strict veracity, and his intense devotion to duty. One of his old friends said to me the other day: "_Nothing_ would tempt Clark away from what he thought right; his conscientiousness was unbounded."

His love of metaphysics, combined with a very high motive, made him naturally interested in the _whole_ man--body, mind, and spirit. To quote the words of a well-known bishop: "It was his intrepid honesty which was so valuable a quality. In Sir Andrew Clark men felt that he wished to do them good, and to do them the best good, by making men of them."

The bishop told me a characteristic anecdote illustrating this: "A clergyman complained to him of feeling low and depressed, unable to face his work, and tempted to rely on stimulants. Sir Andrew saw that the position was a perilous one, and that it was a crisis in the man's life. He dealt with the case, and forbade resort to stimulants, when the patient declared that he would be unequal to his work and ready to sink. 'Then,' said Sir Andrew, 'sink like a man!'" This is but one of many incidents showing his marvellous power in restraining his patients and raising them to a higher moral level. The writer could tell a far more wonderful story of the saving of a drunkard, body and soul, but it is too touching and sacred for publication. At the top of the wall of that well-known consulting-room (in which Sir Andrew is said to have seen 10,000 patients annually), immediately facing the chair where he always sat, are the words: "Glory to God."

With regard to his profession he was an enthusiast. He termed medicine "the metropolis of the kingdom of knowledge," and in one of his addresses to students, said: "You have chosen one of the noblest, the most important, and the most interesting of professions, but also the most arduous and the most self-denying, involving the largest sacrifices and the fewest rewards. He who is not prepared to find in its cultivation and exercise his chief recompense, has mistaken his calling and should retrace his steps."

He had an ideal, and he did his utmost to live up to it. His words in many instances did as much good as his medicine.

To explain what I mean I cannot do better than quote part of a letter received since Sir Andrew's death, from a delicate, hardworking clergyman, whom I have known some years. After speaking of Sir Andrew's painstaking kindness, "never seeming the least hurried," he says: "He had a wonderful way of inspiring one with confidence and readiness to face one's troubles. I remember his saying once, 'It is wonderful how we get _accustomed_ to our troubles,' and at another time, while encouraging me to go on with work--reading for Orders: 'If one is to die, it is better to die doing something, than doing nothing.' I have often found that a help when feeling done-up and useless. In the old days when people used to go and see him without an appointment, I have often sat for hours in his dining-room, feeling so ill that I felt as if I should die before I saw him, but after having seen him I felt as if I had got a new lease of life. I was not at all hypochondriacal or fanciful, I think, but that was the moral effect of an interview with him. I believe he revolutionized the treatment of cases like mine, and that he, to a certain extent, experimented on me; at any rate, he treated me on philosophical principles, and told me often" (he went to him for twenty years) "that I had become much stronger than he had expected. He said to me several times: 'You are a wonderful man; you have saved many lives.'"

This my correspondent understood to mean the experiments had been successful.

"He once said that if I had died at that time, there was not a doctor in London would have approved of his treatment. He gave a description of my case some years ago, in a lecture I think at Brighton--but of course without the name. The particular weakness was valvular disease of the heart, the consequence of rheumatic fever, and this treatment was founded on the principle that Nature always works towards compensation. He told me many years ago that that particular mischief was fully compensated for."