“I am sure I thought you did,” said Lady Verner. “I supposed it to have been a pre-arranged thing between you and Jan. Lionel,” looking up into his face with an expression of care, and lowering her voice, “but for that hundred and forty pounds, I don’t see how I could have gone on. You had been very liberal to me, but somehow debt upon debt seemed to come in, and I was growing quite embarrassed. Jan’s money set me partially straight. My dear—as you see you are no ‘burthen,’ as you call it, you will give up this London scheme, will you not, and remain on?’
“I suppose I must,” mechanically answered Lionel, who seemed buried in thought.
He did suppose he must. He was literally without money, and his intention had been to ask the loan of a twenty pound note from generous Jan, to carry him to London, and keep him there while he turned himself about, and saw what could be done. How could he ask Jan now? There was little doubt that Jan had left himself as void of ready cash as he, Lionel was. Dr. West’s was not a business where patients went and paid their guinea fee, two or three dozen patients a-day. Dr. West (or Jan for him) had to doctor his patients for a year, and send in his modest bill at the end of it, very often waiting for another year before the bill was paid. Sibylla on his hands, and no money, he did not see how he was to get to London.
“But just think of it,” resumed Lady Verner. “Jan’s savings for nearly three years of practice to amount only to a hundred and forty pounds! I questioned him pretty sharply, asking him what on earth he could have done with his money, and he acknowledged that he had given a good deal away. He said Miss West had borrowed some, the doctor kept her so short; then Jan, it seems, forgot to put down the expenses of the horse to the general account, and that had to come out of his pocket. Another thing he acknowledged to having done. When he finds the poor can’t conveniently pay their bills, he crosses it off in the book, and furnishes the money himself. He has not common sense, you know, Lionel; and never had.”
Lionel caught up his hat, and went out in the moment’s impulse, seeking Jan. Jan was in the surgery alone, making up pills, packing up medicines, answering callers; doing, in fact, Master Cheese’s work. Master Cheese had a head-ache, and was groaning dismally in consequence in an arm-chair, in front of Miss Deb’s sitting-room fire, and sipping some hot elder wine, with sippets of toast in it, which he had assured Miss Deb was a sovereign specific, though it might not be generally known, to keep off the sickness.
“Jan,” said Lionel, going straight up, and grasping him by the hand; “what am I to say to you? I did not know, until ten minutes ago, what it is that you are doing for me.”
Jan put down a pill-box he held, and looked at Lionel.
“What am I doing for you?” he asked.
“I speak of this money that I find you have handed to my mother. Of the money you have undertaken to hand to her.”
“Law, is that all?” said Jan, taking up the pill-box again, and biting one of the pills in two to test its quality. “I thought you were going to tell me I had sent you poison, or something; coming in like that.”
“Jan, I can never repay you. The money I may, sometime; I hope I shall: the debt of gratitude, never.”
“There’s nothing to repay,” returned Jan, with composure. “As long as I have meat and drink and clothes, what do I want with extra money? You are heartily welcome to it, Lionel.”
“You are working your days away, Jan, and for no benefit to yourself. I am reaping it.”
“A man can but work,” responded Jan. “I like work, for my part; I wouldn’t be without it. If old West came home and said he’d take all the patients for a week, and give me a holiday, I should only set on and pound. Look here,” pointing to the array on the counter. “I have done more work in two hours than Cheese gets through in a week.”
Lionel could not help smiling. Jan went on:
“I don’t work for the sake of accumulating money, but because work is life’s business, and I like work for its own sake. If I got no money by it I should work. Don’t think about the money, Lionel: while it lay in that bank where was the use of it? Better for my mother to have it, than for me to be hoarding it.”
“Jan, did it never strike you that it might be well to make some provision for contingencies? Old age, say; or sudden deprivation of strength, through accident or other cause? If you give away all you might save for yourself, what should you do were the evil day to come?”
Jan looked at his arms.
“I am tolerably strong,” said he; “feel me. My head’s all right, and my limbs are all right. If I should be deprived of strength before my time, I daresay God, in taking it, would find some means, just to keep me from want.”
The answer was delivered in the most straightforward simplicity. Lionel looked at him till his eyes grew moist.
“A pretty fellow I should be, to hoard up money while anybody else wanted it!” continued Jan. “You and Sibylla make yourselves comfortable, Lionel, that’s all.”
They were interrupted by the entrance of John Massingbird and his pipe. John appeared to find his time hang rather heavily on his hands: he could not say that work was the business of his life. He might be seen lounging about Deerham at all hours of the day and night, smoking and gossiping. Jan often got honoured with a visit. Mr. Massingbird of Verner’s Pride was not a whit altered from Mr. Massingbird of nowhere: John favoured the tap-rooms like he had used to do.
“The very man I wanted to see!” cried he, giving Lionel a hearty slap on the shoulder. “I want to talk to you a bit on a matter of business. Will you come up to Verner’s Pride?”
“When?” asked Lionel.
“This evening. Come to dinner. Only our two selves.”
“Very well,” replied Lionel.
