Through the Fray | Page 4

he had fallen in love with her, knowing nothing of her real
disposition, and they had been married upon their arrival at the
termination of the voyage. So loyal was his nature that it is probable
Captain Sankey never admitted even to himself that his marriage had
been a mistake; but none of his comrades ever doubted it. His wife
turned out one of the most helpless of women. Under the plea of ill
health she had at a very early period of their marriage given up all
attempt to manage the affairs of the household, and her nerves were
wholly unequal to the strain of looking after her children. It was
noticeable that though her health was unequal to the discharge of her
duties, she was always well enough to take part in any pleasure or
gayety which might be going on; and as none of the many doctors who
attended her were able to discover any specific ailment, the general
opinion was that Mrs. Sankey's ill health was the creation of her own
imagination. This, however, was not wholly the case. She was not
strong; and although, had she made an effort, she would have been able
to look after her children like other women, she had neither the

disposition nor the training to make that effort.
Her son regarded her with the sort of pity, not unmingled with
contempt, with which young people full of life and energy are apt to
regard those who are weak and ailing without having any specific
disease or malady which would account for their condition.
"All the bothers fall upon father," he would say to himself; "and if
mother did but make up her mind she could take her share in them well
enough. There was he walking about for two hours this evening with
little Lucy in his arms, because she had fallen down and hurt herself;
and there was mother lying on the sofa reading that book of poetry, as
if nothing that happened in the house was any affair of hers. She is very
nice and very kind, but I do wish she wouldn't leave everything for
father to do. It might have been all very well before he lost his leg, but I
do think she ought to make an effort now."
However, Mrs. Sankey made no effort, nor did her husband ever hint
that it would be better for herself as well as her family if she did so. He
accepted the situation as inevitable, and patiently, and indeed willingly,
bore her burden as well as his own.
Fortunately she had in the children's nurse an active and trustworthy
woman. Abijah Wolf was a Yorkshire woman. She had in her youth
been engaged to a lad in her native village. In a moment of drunken
folly, a short time before the day fixed for their wedding, he had been
persuaded to enlist. Abijah had waited patiently for him twelve years.
Then he had returned a sergeant, and she had married him and followed
him with his regiment, which was that in which Captain Sankey--at that
time a young ensign--served. When the latter's first child was born at
Madras there was a difficulty in obtaining a white nurse, and Mrs.
Sankey declared that she would not trust the child to a native. Inquiries
were therefore made in the regiment, and Sergeant Wolf's wife, who
had a great love for children although childless herself, volunteered to
fill the post for a time. A few months afterward Sergeant Wolf was
killed in a fight with a marauding hill tribe. His widow, instead of
returning home and living on the little pension to which she was
entitled at his death, remained in the service of the Sankeys, who soon
came to regard her as invaluable.
She was somewhat rough in her ways and sharp with her tongue; but
even Mrs. Sankey, who was often ruffled by her brusque independence,

was conscious of her value, and knew that she should never obtain
another servant who would take the trouble of the children so entirely
off her hands. She retained, indeed, her privilege of grumbling, and
sometimes complained to her husband that Abijah's ways were really
unbearable. Still she never pressed the point, and Abijah appeared
established as a permanent fixture in the Sankeys' household. She it
was who, when, after leaving the service, Captain Sankey was looking
round for a cheap and quiet residence, had recommended Marsden.
"There is a grand air from the hills," she said, "which will be just the
thing for the children. There's good fishing in the stream for yourself,
captain, and you can't get a quieter and cheaper place in all England. I
ought to know, for I was born upon the moorland but six miles away
from