Daffodil's Delight was in a state of commotion. It has often been remarked that there exists more real sympathy between the working classes, one for another, than amongst those of a higher grade; and experience generally seems to bear it out. From one end of Daffodil's Delight to the other, there ran just now a deep feeling of sorrow, of pity, of commiseration. Men made inquiries of each other as they passed in the street; women congregated at their doors to talk, concern on their faces, a question on their lips—'How is she? What does the doctor say?'

Yes; the excitement had its rise in one cause alone—the increased illness of Mrs. Baxendale. The physician had pronounced his opinion (little need to speak it, though, for the fact was only too apparent to all who used their eyes), and the news had gone forth to Daffodil's Delight—Mrs. Baxendale was past recovery; was, in fact, dying!

The concern, universal as it was, showed itself in various ways. Visits and neighbourly calls were so incessant, that the Shucks openly rebelled at the 'trampling up and down through their living-room,' by which route the Baxendale apartments could alone be gained. The neighbours came to help; to nurse; to shake up the bed and pillows; to prepare condiments over the fire; to condole; and, above all, to gossip: with tears in their eyes and lamentation in their tones, and ominous shakes of the head, and uplifted hands; but still, to gossip: that lies in human female nature. They brought offerings of savoury delicacies; or things that, in their ideas, stood for delicacies—dainties likely to tempt the sick. Mrs. Cheek made a pint jug of what she called 'buttered beer,' a miscellaneous compound of scalding-hot porter, gin, eggs, sugar, and spice. Mrs. Baxendale sipped a little; but it did not agree with her fevered palate, and she declined it for the future, with 'thanks, all the same,' and Mrs. Cheek and a crony or two disposed of it themselves with great satisfaction. All this served to prove two things—that good feeling ran high in Daffodil's Delight, and that means did not run low.

Of all the visitors, the most effectual assistant was Mrs. Quale. She gossiped, it is true, or it had not been Mrs. Quale; but she gave efficient help; and the invalid was always glad to see her come in, which could not be said with regard to all. Daffodil's Delight was not wrong in the judgment it passed upon Mary Baxendale—that she was a 'poor creature.' True; poor as to being clever in a domestic point of view, and in attending upon the sick. In mind, in cultivation, in refinement, in gentleness, Mary Baxendale beat Daffodil's Delight hollow; she was also a beautiful seamstress; but in energy and capability Mary was sadly wanting. She was timid always—painfully timid in the sick-room; anxious to do for her mother all that was requisite, but never knowing how to set about it. Mrs. Quale remedied this; she did the really efficient part; Mary gave love and gentleness; and, between the two, Mrs. Baxendale was thankful and happy.

John Baxendale, not a demonstrative man, was full of concern and grief. His had been a very happy home, free from domestic storms and clouds; and, to lose his wife, was anything but a cheering prospect. His wages were good, and they had wanted for nothing, not even for peace. To such, when trouble comes, it seems hard to bear—it almost seems as if it came as a wrong.

'Just hold your tongue, John Baxendale,' cried Mrs. Quale one day, upon hearing him express something to this effect. 'Because you have never had no crosses, is it any reason that you never shall? No. Crosses come to us all sometime in our lives, in one shape or other.'

'But it's a hard thing for it to come in this shape,' retorted Baxendale, pointing to the bed. 'I'm not repining or rebelling against what it pleases God to do; but I can't see the reason of it. Look at some of the other wives in Daffodil's Delight; shrieking, raving trollops, turning their homes into a bear-garden with their tempers, and driving their husbands almost mad. If some of them were taken they'd never be missed: just the contrary.'

'John,' interposed Mrs. Baxendale, in her quiet voice, 'when I am gone up there'—pointing with her finger to the blue October sky—'it may make you think more of the time when you must come; may help you to be preparing for it, better than you have done.'

Mary lifted her wan face, glowing now with the excitement of the thought. 'Father, that may be the end—the reason. I think that troubles are sent to us in mercy, not in anger.'

'Think!' ejaculated Mrs. Quale, tossing back her head with a manner less reverent than her words. 'Before you shall have come to my age, girl, it's to be hoped you'll know they are. Isn't it time for the medicine?' she continued, seeing no other opening for a reprimand just then.

It was time for the medicine, and Mrs. Quale poured it out, raised the invalid from her pillow, and administered it. John Baxendale looked on. Like his daughter Mary, he was in these matters an incapable man.

'How long is it since Dr. Bevary was here?' he asked.

'Let's see?' responded Mrs. Quale, who liked to have most of the talking to herself, wherever she might be. 'This is Friday. Tuesday, wasn't it, Mary? Yes, he was here on Tuesday.'

'But why does he not come oftener?' cried John, in a tone of resentment. 'That's what I was wanting to ask about. When one is as ill as she is—in danger of dying—is it right that a doctor should never come a near for three or four days?'

'Oh, John! a great physician like Dr. Bevary!' remonstrated his wife. 'It is so very good of him to come at all. And for nothing, too! He as good as said to Mary he didn't mean to charge.'

'I can pay him; I'm capable of paying him, I hope,' spoke John Baxendale. 'Who said I wanted my wife to be attended out of charity?'

'It's not just that, father, I think,' said Mary. 'He comes more in a friendly way.'

'Friendly or not, it isn't come to the pass yet, that I can't pay a doctor,' said John Baxendale. 'Who has let it go abroad that I couldn't?'

Taking up his hat, he went out on the spur of the moment, and bent his steps to Dr. Bevary's. There he was civil and humble enough, for John Baxendale was courteous by nature. The doctor was at home, and saw him at once.

'Listen, my good man,' said Dr. Bevary, when he had caught somewhat of his errand. 'If, by going round often, I could do any good to your wife, I should go. Twice a day; three times a day—by night, too, if necessary. But I cannot do her good: had she a doctor over her bed constantly, he could render no service. I step round now and then, because I see that it is a satisfaction to her, and to those about her; not for any use I can be. I told you a week ago the end was not very far off, and that she would meet it calmly. She will be in no further pain—no worse than she is now.'

'I am able to pay you, sir.'

'That is not the question. If you paid me a guinea every time I came round, I should visit her no more frequently than I do.'

'And, if you please, sir, I'd rather pay you,' continued the man. 'I'm sure I don't grudge it; and it goes against the grain to have it said that John Baxendale's wife is attended out of charity. We English workmen, sir, are independent, and proud of being so.'

'Very good,' said Dr. Bevary. 'I should be sorry to see the day come when English workmen lost their independence. As to "charity," we will talk a bit about that. Look here, Baxendale,' the doctor added, laying his hand upon his shoulder, in his kind and familiar way, 'you and I can speak reasonably together, as man to man. We both have to work for our living—you with the hands, I chiefly with the head—so, in that, we are equal. I go twice a week to see your wife; I have told you why it is useless to go oftener. When patients come to me, they pay me a guinea, and I see them twice for it, which is equivalent to half a guinea a visit; but, when I go to patients at their own houses, my fee is a guinea each time. Now, would it seem to you a neighbourly act that I should take two guineas weekly from your wages?—quite as much, or more, than you gain. What does my going round cost me? A few minutes' time; a gossip with Mrs. Quale, touching the doings of Daffodil's Delight, and a groan at those thriftless Shucks, in their pigsty of a room. That is the plain statement of facts; and I should like to know what there is in it that need put your English spirit up. Charity! We might call it by that name, John Baxendale, if I were the guinea each time out of pocket, through medicines or other things furnished to you.'

John Baxendale smiled; but he looked only three parts convinced.

'Tush, man!' said the doctor; 'I may be asking you to do me some friendly service, one of these days, and then, you know, we should be quits. Eh, John?'

John Baxendale half put out his hand, and the doctor shook it.

'I think I understand now, sir; and I thank you heartily for what you have said. I only wish you could do some good to the wife.'

'I wish I could, Baxendale,' he replied, throwing a kindly glance after the man as he was moving away. 'I shan't bring an action against you in the county court for these unpaid fees, Baxendale, for it wouldn't stand,' called out the doctor. 'I never was called in to see your wife—I went of my own accord, and have so continued to go, and shall so continue. Good day.'

As John Baxendale was descending the steps of the house door, he encountered Mrs. Hunter. She stopped him to inquire after his wife.

'Getting weaker daily, ma'am, thank you. The doctor has just told me again that there's no hope.'

'I am truly sorry to hear it,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'I will call in and see her. I did intend to call before, but something or other has caused me to put it off.'

John Baxendale touched his hat, and departed. Mrs. Hunter went in to her brother.

'Oh, is it you, Louisa?' he exclaimed. 'A visit from you is somewhat a rarity. Are you feeling worse?'

'Rather better, I think, than usual. I have just met John Baxendale,' continued Mrs. Hunter, sitting down, and untying her bonnet strings. 'He says there is no hope for his wife. Poor woman! I wish it had been different. Many a worse woman could have been better spared.'

'Ah,' said the doctor, 'if folks were taken according to our notions of whom might be best spared, what a world this would be! Where's Miss Florence?'

'I did not bring her out with me, Robert. I came round to say a word to you about James,' resumed Mrs. Hunter, her voice insensibly lowering itself to a tone of confidence. 'Something is the matter with him, and I cannot imagine what.'

'Been eating too many cucumbers again, no doubt,' cried the doctor. 'He will go in at that cross-grained vegetable, let it be in season, or out.'

'Eating!' returned Mrs. Hunter, 'I wish he did eat. For at least a fortnight—more, I think—he has not eaten enough to support a bird. That he is ill is evident to all—must be evident; but when I ask him what is the matter, he persists in it that he is quite well; that I am fanciful: seems annoyed, in short, that I should allude to it. Has he been here to consult you?'

'No,' replied Dr. Bevary; 'this is the first I have heard of it. How does he seem? What are his symptoms?'

'It appears to me,' said Mrs. Hunter, almost in a whisper, 'that the malady is more on the mind. There is no palpable disorder. He is restless, nervous, agitated; so restless at night, that he has now taken to sleep in a room apart from mine—not to disturb me, he says. I fear—I fear he may have been attacked with some dangerous inward malady, that he is concealing. His father, you know, died of——'

'Pooh! Nonsense! You are indeed becoming fanciful, Louisa,' interrupted the doctor. 'Old Mr. Hunter died of an unusual disorder, I admit; but, if the symptoms of such appeared in either James or Henry, they would come galloping to me in hot haste, asking if my skill could suggest a preventive. It is no "inward malady," depend upon it. He has been smoking too much: or going in at the cucumbers.'

'Robert, it is something far more serious than that,' quietly rejoined Mrs. Hunter.

'When did you first notice him to be ill?'

'It is, I say, about a fortnight since. One evening there came a stranger to our house, a lady, and she would see him. He did not want to see her: he sent young Clay to her, who happened to be with us; but she insisted upon seeing James. They were closeted together a long while before she left; and then James went out—on business, Mr. Clay said.'

'Well?' cried Dr. Bevary. 'What has the lady to do with it?'

'I am not sure that she has anything to do with it. Florence told an incomprehensible story about the lady's having gone into Baxendale's that afternoon, after seeing her uncle Henry in the street and mistaking him for James. A Miss—what was the name?—Gwinn, I think.'

Dr. Bevary, who happened to have a small glass phial in his hand, let it fall to the ground: whether by inadvertence, or that the words startled him, he best knew. 'Well?' was all he repeated, after he had gathered the pieces in his hand.

'I waited up till twelve o'clock, and James never came in. I heard him let himself in afterwards with his latch-key, and came up into the dressing-room. I called out to know where he had been, it is so unusual for him to stay out, and he said he was much occupied, and that I was to go to sleep, for he had some writing to do. But, Robert, instead of writing, he was pacing the house all night, out of one room into another; and in the morning—oh, I wish you could have seen him!—he looked wild, wan, haggard, as one does who has got up out of a long illness; and I am positive he had been weeping. From that time I have noticed the change I tell you of. He seems like one going into his grave. But, whether the illness is upon the body or the mind, I know not.'

Dr. Bevary appeared intent upon putting together the pieces of his phial, making them fit into each other.

'It will all come right, Louisa; don't fret yourself: something must have gone cross in his business. I'll call in at the office and see him.'

'Do not say that I have spoken to you. He seems to have quite a nervous dread of its being observed that anything is wrong with him; has spoken sharply, not in anger, but in anguish, when I have pressed the question.'

'As if the lady could have anything to do with it!' exclaimed Dr. Bevary, in a tone of satire.

'I do not suppose she had. I only mentioned the circumstances because it is since that evening he has changed. You can see what you think of him, and tell me afterwards.'

The answer was only a nod; and Mrs. Hunter went out. Dr. Bevary remained in a brown study. His servant came in with an account that patient after patient was waiting for him, but the doctor replied by a repelling gesture, and the man did not again dare to intrude. Perplexity and pain sat upon his brow; and, when at last he did rouse himself, he raised aloft his hands, and gave utterance to words that sounded very like a prayer:

'I pray heaven it may not be so! It would kill Louisa.'

The pale, delicate face of Mrs. Hunter was at that moment bending over the invalid in her bed. In her soft grey silk dress and light shawl, her simple straw bonnet with its white ribbons, she looked just the right sort of visitor for a sick-chamber; and her voice was sweet, and her manner gentle.

'No, ma'am, don't speak of hope to me,' murmured Mrs. Baxendale. 'I know that there is none left, and I am quite reconciled to die. I have been an ailing woman for years, dear lady; and it is wonderful how those that are so get to look upon death, if they can but presume to hope their soul is safe, with satisfaction, rather than with dread. Though I dare not say as much yet to my poor husband.'

'I have long been ailing, too,' softly replied Mrs. Hunter. 'I am rarely free from pain, and I know that I shall never be healthy and strong again. But still—I do fear it would give me pain to die, were the fiat to come forth.'

'Never fear, dear lady,' cried the invalid, her eyes brightening. 'Before the fiat does come, be assured that God will have reconciled you to it. Ah, ma'am, what matters it, after all? It is a journey we must take; and, when once we are prepared, it seems but the setting off a little sooner or a little later. I got Mary to read me the burial service on Sunday: I was always fond of it; but I am past reading now. In one part thanks are given to God for that he has been pleased to deliver the dead out of the miseries of this sinful world. Ma'am, if He did not remove us to a better and a happier home, would the living be directed to give thanks for our departure from this?'

'A spirit ripe for heaven,' thought Mrs. Hunter, when she took her leave.

It was Mrs. Quale who piloted her through the room of the Shucks. Of all scenes of disorder and discomfort, about the worst reigned there. Sam had been—you must excuse the inelegance of the phrase, but it was much in vogue in Daffodil's Delight—'on the loose' again for a couple of days. He sat sprawling across the hearth, a pipe in his mouth, and a pot of porter at his feet. The wife was crying with her hair down; the children were quarrelling in tatters; the dirt in the place, as Mrs. Quale expressed it, stood on end; and Mrs. Hunter wondered how people could bear to live so.

'Now, Sam Shuck, don't you see who is a standing in your presence?' sharply cried Mrs. Quale.

Sam, his back to the staircase door, really had not seen. He threw his pipe into the grate, started up, and pulled his hair to Mrs. Hunter in a very humble fashion. In his hurry he turned over a small child, and the contents of the pewter pot upon it. The child roared; the wife took it up and shook its clothes in Sam's face, restraining her tongue till the lady should be gone; and Mrs. Hunter stepped into the garden out of the mÊlÉe—glad to get there: Sam following her in a spirit of politeness.

'How is it you are not at work to-day, Shuck?' she asked.

'I am going to-morrow—I shall go for certain, ma'am.'

'You know, Shuck, I never do interfere with Mr. Hunter's men,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'I consider that intelligent workmen, as you are, ought to be above any advice that I could offer. But I cannot help saying how sad it is that you should waste your time. Were you not discharged a little while ago, and taken on again under a specific promise, made by you to Mr. Henry Hunter, that you would be diligent in future?'

'I am diligent,' grumbled Sam. 'But why, ma'am—a chap must take holiday now and then. 'Tain't in human nature to be always having the shoulder at the wheel.'

'Well, pray be cautious,' said Mrs. Hunter. 'If you offend again, and get discharged, I know they will not be so ready to take you back. Remember your little children, and be steady for their sakes.'

Sam went indoors to his pipe, to his wife's tongue, and to despatch a child to get the pewter pot replenished.