Anne's commands are spoken very sweetly,and are accompanied by the sweetest of smiles;but they are nevertheless commands,and somehow it does not occur to any one to disobey them.John--stern,masterful,authoritative John,who has never been approached with anything more dictatorial than a timid request since he left Merchant Taylors'School nineteen years ago,who would have thought that something had suddenly gone wrong with the laws of Nature if he had been--finds himself hurrying along the street on his way to a druggist's shop,slackens his pace an instant to ask himself why and wherefore he is doing so,recollects that he was told to do so and to make haste back,marvels who could have dared to tell him to do anything and to make haste back,remembers that it was Anne,is not quite sure what to think about it,but hurries on.He "makes haste back,"is praised for having been so quick,and feels pleased with himself;is sent off again in another direction,with instructions what to say when he gets there.He starts off (he is becoming used to being ordered about now).Halfway there great alarm seizes him,for on attempting to say over the message to himself,to be sure that he has it quite right,he discovers he has forgotten it.He pauses,nervous and excited;cogitates as to whether it will be safe for him to concoct a message of his own,weighs anxiously the chances--supposing that he does so--of being found out.Suddenly,to his intense surprise and relief,every word of what he was told to say comes back to him;and he hastens on,repeating it over and over to himself as he walks,lest it should escape him again.
And then a few hundred yards farther on there occurs one of the most extraordinary events that has ever happened in that street before or since:John Ingerfield laughs.
John Ingerfield,of Lavender Wharf,after walking two-thirds of Creek Lane,muttering to himself with his eyes on the ground,stops in the middle of the road and laughs;and one small boy,who tells the story to his dying day,sees him and hears him,and runs home at the top of his speed with the wonderful news,and is conscientiously slapped by his mother for telling lies.
All that day Anne works like a heroine,John helping her,and occasionally getting in the way.By night she has her little hospital prepared and three beds already up and occupied;and,all now done that can be done,she and John go upstairs to his old rooms above the counting-house.
John ushers her into them with some misgiving,for by contrast with the house at Bloomsbury they are poor and shabby.He places her in the arm-chair near the fire,begging her to rest quiet,and then assists his old housekeeper,whose wits,never of the strongest,have been scared by the day's proceeding,to lay the meal.
Anne's eyes follow him as he moves about the room.Perhaps here,where all the real part of his life has been passed,he is more his true self than amid the unfamiliar surroundings of fashion;perhaps this simpler frame shows him to greater advantage;but Anne wonders how it is she has never noticed before that he is a well-set,handsome man.Nor,indeed,is he so very old-looking.Is it a trick of the dim light,or what?He looks almost young.But why should he not look young,seeing he is only thirty-six,and at thirty-six a man is in his prime?Anne wonders why she has always thought of him as an elderly person.
A portrait of one of John's ancestors hangs over the great mantelpiece--of that sturdy Captain Ingerfield who fought the King's frigate rather than give up one of his people.Anne glances from the dead face to the living and notes the strong likeness between them.
Through her half-closed eyes she sees the grim old captain hurling back his message of defiance,and his face is the face she saw a few hours ago,saying,"I mean to stop here with you and do what I can for you.None of my people shall want."John is placing a chair for her at the table,and the light from the candles falls upon him.She steals another glance at his face--a strong,stern,handsome face,capable of becoming a noble face.Anne wonders if it has ever looked down tenderly at anyone;feels a sudden fierce pain at the thought;dismisses the thought as impossible;wonders,nevertheless,how tenderness would suit it;thinks she would like to see a look of tenderness upon it,simply out of curiosity;wonders if she ever will.
She rouses herself from her reverie as John,with a smile,tells her supper is ready,and they seat themselves opposite each other,an odd air of embarrassment pervading.
Day by day their work grows harder;day by day the foe grows stronger,fiercer,more all-conquering;and day by day,fighting side by side against it,John Ingerfield and Anne,his wife,draw closer to each other.On the battle-field of life we learn the worth of strength.Anne feels it good,when growing weary,to glance up and find him near her;feels it good,amid the troubled babel round her,to hear the deep,strong music of his voice.
And John,watching Anne's fair figure moving to and fro among the stricken and the mourning;watching her fair,fluttering hands,busy with their holy work,her deep,soul-haunting eyes,changeful with the light and shade of tenderness;listening to her sweet,clear voice,laughing with the joyous,comforting the comfortless,gently commanding,softly pleading,finds creeping into his brain strange new thoughts concerning women--concerning this one woman in particular.
