A DOWNY COVE.
IT could hardly be expected that my Uncle Corny should grow very
miserable about this matter. He knew that young people of the ordinary
cast tumble into love and tumble out again, with perhaps a little
running of the eyes and nose, and a hat crushed on the head, or a
ribbon saturated; but nothing that penetrates the skin, far less puts
a “tub of clothes,” as Mrs. Wilcox said, into the lungs. And it would
not have been reasonable to demand of him, that he should believe in
any grand distinction between the case of Kitty and myself, and that of
any other couple he might come across, in a life whose main nucleus was
Covent Garden. That which chiefly moved him, as he told me in the end,
and as I might have known without his telling, was the iron sense of
justice, gilded haply at the corners, and crowned with a little touch
of chivalry. To his sturdy sense of right it seemed a monstrous thing,
that an innocent girl, and such a lovely girl, should be locked away
from all who were longing to help her, and left at the mercy of two bad
men.
Therefore he donned his Sunday clothes, though he grumbled a good
deal at having to do it, and without a word to me, put old _Spanker_
in the shafts, and drove away alone in the green spring-cart, with a
face which made all the village say to one another, that he must have
a County-court job on his hands. Dr. Sippets, who came to see me every
day, had by this time supplied such a row of medicine-bottles, that we
glazed a new wall with them forty yards long, for he would not allow a
farthing on their return, though he put them in the bill at twopence
halfpenny apiece; and that glazing brought him even more than that much
again, from the number of boys’ fingers which he had to dress. For
he was a skilful, as well as zealous man, and did his utmost for his
patients and his family.
He had now begun to “exhibit” mustard oil externally, as well as zinc,
and especially sulphur inside; till the sulphur began to ooze through
my pores, as if I had been a tea rose suffering from mildew. Then
Tabby had to rub me with the mustard oil; and the more I groaned, the
surer she became of its effect. With this vigorous treatment I began
to rally, and even heard Uncle Corny depart, and contrived to steal a
peep at him behind the window curtain. But they told me some fib about
his errand.
When he put up his horse, somewhere near Holland Park, he had not far
to walk to find Mrs. Wilcox, who received him with great cordiality.
And she sent her little Ted, who proved to be the very boy that had
guided me among the brickfields, with a note which he managed to convey
to Miss Fairthorn. “Rumpus going on,” he said when he came back; “they
makes more rumpus in that house, than a score of navvies over one red
herring. But cooky’s not a bad sort; she’ll give it to her.”
It was nearly an hour before Miss Fairthorn came, and then she was so
nervous, and down-hearted, that they scarcely knew what to do with her.
At first she had quite forgotten Uncle Corny, having never seen him
in his best clothes at home, and being distracted with sorrow and ill
usage. For as yet Mrs. Wilcox had been unable to get a word with her
about the visit of the day before. Gradually, however, she began to
understand what had happened, and why she had not heard from me.
“Then he has not forgotten me, after all!” she said, in a tone that
made her old nurse sob, and my uncle look out of the window. “Something
told me all along, that he could not forget me, any more than I could
do such a thing to him. But you say that he is ill, that he has long
been ill; and perhaps he will never be well any more. Tell me the
truth, I would rather know it. Is he dead, is he dead, Mr. Orchardson?”
“No, my dear, thank the Lord, he is all alive, and getting ever so much
better every day. He went off his head, just a little for a time; and
he did not know me from the man in the moon; and what do you think was
the word that was on his tongue, all day, and all night too for that
matter? Guess, and I’ll tell you if you are right.”
“Oh, I know what it was! It began with a K, and it was not a very long
word, was it? It was ‘Kitty.’ Don’t tell me that it was anything but
‘Kitty.’”
“No, my dear, I won’t, because I never tell fibs. Sure enough that was
it, like a cherry-clapper; only in a hundred different tones. I used to
say that if you were there, you’d get heartily tired of your own name.”
“Never, so long as it came from his lips. But I think I should have
broken my heart, all the same. It has been the kindest thing you could
do, to keep all knowledge of this long suspense from me. How soon will
he be better? How soon will he be well again? Well enough, I mean, to
come down and let me see him?”
“At present, Miss Fairthorn, wherever he is not mustard, he is
brimstone. You cannot expect him to present himself in that condition.
But we have got the mischief out of his joints by this time. Dr.
Sippets considers it a very happy thing that the ailment flew there;
for his heart will be all right, and that’s a great part of the system,
in love. His head is of no importance in that condition; and Mrs.
Wilcox proved to me last night, that it is quite a superfluity in the
present days. Madam, you know you did, and you did it thoroughly.”
My uncle gave a wink at Mrs. Wilcox, not with any overture to
familiarity—for he was very shy of widows—but to intimate to her that
she should talk a little nonsense, after his example, as a rescue from
hysterics. For poor Kitty had been passing through much outrage all
the morning; and now to be met with this shock of strange news (bad to
her head, but perhaps good for her heart) after such a long time of
dejection was enough to throw the finest daughter of Divine Science
into some confusion as to all her organisms. But she fetched herself
back from the precipice of sobs, with a deep draught of air, and spoke
as she did not feel.
“If he is being treated like—like beef, I think I ought to have a voice
in the matter. Will you let me come down, and do it for him—or see that
it is done properly? My father has taught me so many things—”
“My dear,” said my uncle, being truly thankful to her, for not even
pulling out her handkerchief, “you are the sweetest young lady I have
ever met. No, you shall not come down and nurse our Kit; not only
because it is not the place for you, but also that it might be very
bad for him. His mind must not come back with a jerk, however pleasant
the jerk may be. He must come round slowly, and he has begun to do it,
under Tabby Tapscott’s scrubbing-brush. But you shall come and see him,
in a week, my dear, if you think you can hold out so long here. And now
tell me, what is going on, to urge your gentle nature so.”
The young lady looked at Mrs. Wilcox, as if she could hardly tell what
to do. She was very unwilling to refuse my uncle anything he might ask
her; and yet she could not bring herself to speak of such matters to
him.
“I will tell you all about it, when she is gone,” said the lady of the
shop, as if hurried for time; “but I know by her look that she is
getting in a fright. What will they do, if they catch you out, dearie?”
“I defy them. I defy them. They may do what they like. Now I know that
Kit stands fast to me, after all he has suffered for my sake, am I
likely to show the white feather? Uncle Corny, I will come away with
you, and let them do their worst, if you will take me.”
She pulled her hat down on her forehead, and drew her crinoline into
small compass, as if she were ready to mount our spring-cart; and her
manner had such an effect on my uncle—for very pretty girls do even
more by attitude, than by words or looks—that he saw himself driving
her away, and looking back with a whistle of defiance at the world.
Moreover she had called him “Uncle Corny,” which put him on his mettle
to deserve it; and though there have been few men born as yet, with
more gift of decision in their nature, he looked at her lovingly, and
hesitated.
“It will not do,” Mrs. Wilcox interrupted, as if she were once more in
office as nurse. “Of law I know nothing, sir, and you do; as you was
pleased to tell me yesterday. If her father was at home, and sanctioned
it, no doubt it might be in your jurisdiction”—the good lady was proud
of her law, and repeated—“it might be in your jurisdiction, sir. But
without any sign of that, where should we be? Pulled up for conspiracy
against the realm, and nothing for me, but to put my shutters up.”
“I fear that you are right, ma’am,” replied my uncle, “though I don’t
care twopence for the law sometimes, when I feel better law inside me.
But it is the young lady we must think of first. We must let her do
nothing to injure herself. Have patience, my dear. They may torment
you in the house, but they cannot take you out of it, and marry you to
anybody, against your own will and pleasure. Your will and pleasure is
to have our Kit; and with the will of the Lord, you shall do so.”
“I suppose I must go back. There seems nothing else to do;” Miss
Fairthorn spoke very sadly, looking from one to the other, and trying
to be cheerful. “But if the worst comes to the worst, will you find a
place for me, Uncle Corny? I have got a little money my dear father
gave me; and they shall take away my life, before they get it.”
“Bravo, well said indeed, my dear!” This alone was needed to confirm
my uncle in his high opinion of her. “What a wife you will make for a
steady young man! Yes, my dear child, I will find you a place, and you
shan’t pay sixpence for it. And none but your father shall take you
away, unless the Lord Chancellor comes himself to fetch you.”
“Thank you. Then I shall know what to do. I am not so much afraid of
them, now I know that Kit is true. I shall say to myself—‘What is this
to put up with, after all that he has borne for me?’ Give him my best
love, and tell him to get well, and sit by the window, and look out for
me. Good-bye, Uncle Corny; I will not attempt to thank you. Good-bye,
nurse. I don’t deserve such friends. They may do what they like now,
and I shall only laugh.”
“She deserves the best friends, and she shall have them too,” Mr.
Orchardson said, as soon as she was gone, with little Ted to see the
way clear for her; “that’s what I call a downright good girl, without
a bit of humbug in her. A fig for their science! Will it ever produce
such a fine bit of nature as that is? Now tell me, as far as you can,
Mrs. Wilcox, what is it they want to do with her, why they torment her
so, and what we can do to stop it?”
My uncle laid his watch on the table, because he wished to be home
before dark, and the days, though drawing out nicely, were not very
long. He knew that the lady with whom he had to deal, instead of
putting things into small compass, would fetch a large compass about
them, whose radius would only be lengthened by any disturbance or hurry
on his part. So he merely placed his watch as a silent, or at least a
comparatively quiet witness, and reproof; but the scheme failed, as
it deserved to do. All he obtained by it was a lesson, which he often
repeated afterwards—never set a watch to go against a woman’s tongue;
it puts her on her mettle to outgo it; and one wants winding, but the
other never does.
Mrs. Wilcox had not so very much to tell, but she found a vast quantity
to say, and never said it twice to the same effect. Stripped of her
embellishments, reflections, divergencies, and other little sallies, it
was something as follows.
Captain Fairthorn had been called away to see to the fitting of
some ship near Glasgow, with engines of a special kind, and large
coal-storage, so that she might keep at sea for months together—seven
years the lady said, but that looked like a lady’s tale. And there
were to be wonderful appliances, such as had never been heard of, on
board her, as well as every kind of scientific instrument, all under
the Professor’s own direction. If ever a man was in his own element,
this was the man, and the time and place were there. No wonder that he
forgot all other things below the moon; and it was much to his credit
that before he started, he insisted on a promise from his wife and two
step-daughters, that his dear child Kitty should be treated kindly,
and harassed by none of them while he was away. Upon that condition
only, would he send them every month a handsome sum out of the liberal
payment he was to receive for his services. And he thought himself very
firm, and most sagacious—even suspicious it might be—in providing that
before he drew each cheque, he should have by post a line from his own
daughter, to this effect—“I am very happy, and every one is most kind
to me.”
Unluckily his suspicions were not very shrewd; for he forgot that
there were pens and ink and fingers at Bulwrag Park, quite apart from
Kitty’s, well able to afford him that assurance in her name, for the
gift of forgery was in the family; and his daughter was not to distract
him with letters, so long as he knew that she was comfortable.
No sooner was he off the scene, than that old rake, Sir Cumberleigh
Hotchpot, reappeared, having purposely kept away till then, for he
dreaded the simple and calm man of science. He annoyed poor Miss
Fairthorn with his odious advances, and coarse familiarity, and
slangy talk, and he took a mean advantage of her gentle diffidence
by perpetually assuming that she was pledged to him. This, and the
contempt and spiteful hatred of her stepmother, seemed more than enough
for the poor girl to have to bear; but soon a far greater distress was
added. Donovan Bulwrag, the only son of the Honourable Mrs. Bulwrag
Fairthorn—as she absurdly called herself—came home from the Continent,
where he had been engaged on the staff of some embassy, after running
from his debts; and the house, and the people, and the chattels therein
were not good enough for him to tread upon. This would have mattered
little to Miss Fairthorn (who was rarely favoured with the Bulwrag
society, except for the purpose of insults if this divine Downy, as his
mother called him), had not taken into his great yellow head the idea
that he was in love with Kitty.
This dearly loved son of his mother was a strong young man of three
or four and twenty, able to take his own part anywhere, either with
violence or with fraud, but preferring the latter, when it would do the
trick. Mrs. Wilcox said that he had three crowns to his head, which
went beyond all her experience, although she had been in a hospital.
She had known malefactors with two sometimes, and you never could tell
where their mischief began, because it started double; but she had
combed the hair of this boy once, and nothing would tempt her to do it
again. She was not superstitious, but afraid more often of being too
much the other way; and she left it entirely to the future to prove her
a fool, if she deserved it. Only let any one look at his head.
For it was not only that he was bad inside, but that he gave the same
idea at first sight, to any one having any sense of human looks. It
was not Mrs. Wilcox alone who said this, but my uncle as well, when he
happened to see the young man, while going to look for his horse. He
had notice that he might have the luck to meet him, and sure enough he
had, if there was any luck in it. And my Uncle Corny, though a man of
strong opinions, did not go so entirely by outward show.
Mr. Downy Bulwrag, as the grandson of a Lord, and likely enough to be a
Lord himself, if people in his way died out of it, had a sense of being
somebody, and liked the world to know that he was rather an important
part of it. Not that he swaggered, or stuck out his arms, or jerked
himself into big attitudes—as some bits of the human chip do—all that
he left for fellows who had yet to prove their value, and knew much
less of life than he did. His manner and air were of solid and silent
conviction, that without him this earth would be a place unfit for a
civilized race to inhabit. He prided himself, if he had any pride, upon
his knowledge of human nature; and like most who do that, he attributed
every word and every action to selfishness, spite, and cupidity. And
like the great bulk of such people again, he was truly consistent in
his own freedom from any loftier motives.
His mother’s pet name for him had been confirmed by all who had the
honour of knowing him. He was downy in manner, as well as appearance,
and (according to the slang of the day) a “downy cove” in all his
actions. No one could look at his bulky form (which greatly resembled
his father’s), enormous head furnished with bright yellow hair, soft
saffron moustache, and orange-coloured eyelashes, without thinking of
a fat, downy apricot, and fearing that he had none of its excellence.
His face, too, was flattened in its own broad substance, as that yellow
fruit often is against the wall, and bulged at the jowl with the
great socket of square jaws. But the forehead was the main and most
impressive feature; full, and round, and almost beetling, wider even
than the great wide jaws, but for its heaviness it would have looked
like the bulwark of a mighty brain; and there was room for the brain of
a Cuvier in that head.
My good Uncle Corny, meeting this man in the road, and knowing who he
was from description received, clapped his keen gray eyes with emphasis
upon him, as much as to say, “I mean to look you through, young man.”
Downy, with his usual self-esteem—which stands like a dummy at every
loop-hole, when the garrison of self-respect is gone—gazed at the
grower with a placid acceptance of rustic admiration. Little did he
dream that another creak of his boots would have brought the crack of a
big whip round his loins; for my uncle was a hasty man sometimes, and
could prove it his duty to be so. And the heavy half-somnolent look of
Downy—as if he were gaping with his eyes almost—was enough to put a
quick busy man in a rage, even if he had no bone to pick with the man
who was making a dog of him.