OUT OF ALL REASON.
WORSE troubles than those of the troublesome body were visiting one
worth a thousand of me. Captain Fairthorn was still in Scotland, while
his fair daughter was being worried, as a lamb among playful wolves.
Without any aid her step-mother was enough to supply her with constant
misery; but even her malice was more easy to endure than the insolent
attentions of two vile men. To these the poor girl was exposed every
day; for if she took refuge in her own room, she was bodily compelled
to come down again, and her gentle appeals and even strong disdain were
treated as a child’s coquetry. There are few things more truculent to
a woman, even a very young one, than the jocular assumption that she
does not know her mind, and perhaps has little of that article to know.
Sir Cumberleigh Hotchpot proceeded regularly upon that assumption; and
though Kitty had the sweetest temper ever bestowed as a blessing to
the owner and all around, this foregone conclusion and heavenly pity
(from a creature by no means celestial) drove her sometimes towards the
tremulous line which severs sanity from insanity.
For it has been said, and perhaps with truth, that the largest and
soundest of human minds could not remain either large or sound, if
all the other minds it had to deal with combined to pronounce it both
small and unsound. Under the hostile light, it could not save itself
from shrinking; it would glance about vainly for a gleam to suit its
own, and then straighten to a line with a cross at either end, like the
pupil of a cat in the fierce light of the sun.
Left in this manner without any friends, with her heart and her soul
among lions, my Kitty (although of strong substance) began to doubt
whether there is any justice. Good as she was, and clear and truthful,
and possessing that sense—which is now turned into folly by higher
discoveries—of a guiding power beyond our own, she strove to believe
that no harm could touch her, while she continued blameless. But it was
a fearful battle for a timid maiden to have to fight.
Happily both for herself and me, her enemies, before they got her
down, fell out about their lawful prey. When Donovan Bulwrag joined
the hunt, at first he was content to turn the quarry towards the other
hounds, and enjoy the distress unselfishly. But after a while, like an
eager dog, he began to kindle towards the prey, and shot forth jealous
glances, and resolved to have a nip for his own tooth. So far as such a
hound could care for anything outside his own hide, he became enamoured
of the charming chase.
His mother with her quick malignant eyes perceived it, and was furious.
Her pet scheme was that her sweet Downy, her Golden Downy as she
called him, should marry gold, and succeed to the title—which was
not improbable—restore its impoverished glory, and set her on high
triumphant. Then her proud sister at Halliford would come and sue to
be reconciled, and her daughters with the lovely hair would shine and
marry fortunes. She would cast the Professor and his grimy works behind
her, and reign as she deserved to reign.
In furtherance of this lofty plan, she had already chosen for her son
a most desirable helpmate, a lady of good birth, and yet sufficiently
akin with commerce to redden her blue blood with gold. And a very quiet
harmless girl, who would gladly fill the chest with guineas, and hand
the key to her mother-in-law. To be a step-mother to gentleness had
been a pleasant and refreshing task; but to be the mother-in-law of
wealth would afford even finer occasions of delight. She had always
been proud of her son’s strong will, and resolute knowledge of his own
mind, while they moved in the course she had marked for them; but if
they went astray, they must be crushed. With her usual promptitude she
resolved to bring the matter to a point at once.
Downy had arrived at the same determination. He had no idea of doing
what he disliked, and his mother had told him that she meant to call
upon Lady Clara Voucher (the only child and heiress of the Earl of
Clerinhouse), and expected his company that afternoon in the carriage
she had bought, but not paid for. “Very well,” he had said, “we will
talk about it;” for his sisters were present, and he preferred a single
combat.
Knowing that his mother was now alone, he came into the room with his
quiet heavy tread, and sat down, and crossed his legs, and looked at
her. Downy Bulwrag, even while he was a boy, had been able to earn
a large competence of hatred; as a young man he had increased the
stock, and throve upon it, and fattened on the butterine of his own
slimy fame. Good and simple young fellows of his own age disliked him,
from what they had heard of him; but none had the power to hate him
properly, until they had seen him. But after that they knew what to do.
They spat on the ground when they thought of him.
“What is it, Downy?” asked his mother, unwarily surrendering the
weather-gage of silence. “You look as if something had put you out. I
think it is I who have the right to be put out.”
Downy began to roll a cigarette—that ragged mummy of the great king
Nicot, which was then just beginning to cast its dirty ash about. He
wetted his fingers with a little sharp smack of his lips, but made no
answer.
“You will not smoke here,” cried his mother, already discarding the
superior maternal tone; “I never let your father smoke in my presence;
and I am sure I shall never let a boy like you.”
“Who was going to smoke?” asked Downy, with gruff contempt at this
instance of feminine precipitance.
“You may smoke, by-and-by, when you have a house of your own, and a
dear little wife to spoil you. But you are coming with me to see her,
and you must not smell of tobacco yet. For a short time you must be on
your best behaviour. Not that sweet Clara would ever object to anything
you like, my dear; but that others might take advantage of it, to make
you seem less devoted to her than you are. She is the great catch of
the season, you know, and there are so many young men after her. She
will make the best wife any man could have—so pleasant, and amiable,
and accomplished, and in spite of that so sweetly pretty. When I saw
her, the night before last at Lady Indigo’s, I thought I had never seen
any one so charming.”
“I don’t think much of her good looks.”
“Then you are most ungrateful, for she dotes on you. Her dear friend,
the Countess, said—‘Tell your noble Downy not to be frightened by sweet
Clara’s money. Her heart is entirely his. What a lucky fellow!’ And
then she sighed, for a little plan of hers has been quite upset by this
romantic episode. Oh, you are fortunate indeed, my dear; and perhaps
a little credit may be fairly due to me. Now put on the coat with the
sable trimmings. You look so foreign, and distinguished in it. And it
shows your broad chest in such a striking way. That dear Countess said
that it made her quite jealous about her dowdy countrymen. And she
thought it had something to do with your conquest.”
“I don’t mean to go at all.” The dutiful son, as he pronounced these
words, threw his bulky shoulders back, and planted one big elbow on
the arm of his easy-chair, and gazed calmly through his yellow lashes,
smiling slightly as he watched the colour rising on his mother’s dark
face. He knew that two stern wills were coming into clash; and the
victory would be for the one that did not waste itself in fury.
“Do you mean to tell me,” began the lady, trembling at heart, and her
voice becoming tremulous, “that you intend to throw away all I have
done? That you will not marry Lady Clara Voucher?”
“That is exactly what I do mean. I will never marry Lady Clara Voucher.”
“And why? Perhaps you will condescend to give some reason.”
“I mean to marry some one else. I mean to marry Kitty Fairthorn.”
His mother arose, as she generally did, when her furious temper burst
all bonds. Often enough, and too often, she had been in a tempest
of wild passion; but never till now in such a hurricane of rage. At
first she was stilled by her own commotion; and the lines of her face
twitched as with palsy.
“Tell me again,” she said, crossing her arms, and speaking with great
effort, as she stood before him, and he sat tranquil; “I cannot believe
it, till I have heard it twice.”
“Certainly, ma’am, to oblige you. I mean to marry, not Lady Clara, but
your step-daughter, Kitty.”
“You ninny, you rebel, you stubborn doll!” she had usually a fine
store of these expressions, but they seemed to desert her in this
great need, and he nodded his head at every one, as if to say, “Try
something better than that”—“You—But it is useless; you are too base to
care, you sit there, like a lump of yellow jaundice. Do you think that
a beautiful girl like Kitty—the vile, designing, artful minx; I will
throttle her, I wish I had her here. Go and fetch her, bring her to me;
I don’t blame you. But she shall pay for this, with her life she shall.
If they hang me to-morrow—”
“Come, mother, come. You have let off a good bit of steam already.
You’ll be as right as a trivet, after a few more choice expressions.
Don’t spare them, if they do you good, you know.”
“I shall never be right again. My heart is broken. I feel myself dying,
and you have killed me. You, my own son, have murdered me. Oh, good
God! What is this pain?”
She fell upon the floor, and moaned and gasped, pressing both hands
to her leaping heart, and scared of all wrath by the dread of death;
now and then she muttered prayers for mercy, broken with groans of
agony. Downy was terrified, and ran for brandy, as she began to tear
her hair, and clutch at the carpet, with shrieks growing weaker and
more gurgling. And as he ran back, his sister Euphrasia met him, and
snatched the bottle from his hand.
“You have done it,” cried Frizzy; “I knew you would. One of these days
she’ll kill herself. You go away. You’re not wanted here. She wouldn’t
take it from your hand, to save her life. I knew it must come. Get
away, get away. Don’t let her eyes hit upon you, when she rolls them;
or she will go off worse than ever. She knows everything, when she is
insensible.”
“Well, you women are a cure!” said Downy, recovering his strength of
mind. “I shall go to my own room, and have a cigar. You can come and
tell me, when she is all right.”
“I am not sure that she will ever be all right,” said his sister,
desiring to frighten him; “I have never seen her quite so bad as this.”
But he only answered, “What a funk you are! She shall not beat me, with
all this stuff.”
He had very little conscience, and that little—to use a stock-word
now in fashion—particularly _reticent_. And the still small voice, if
there were any, could not find much to say this time. In nothing but
the rudeness of his manner had he offended against strict right, and he
never even knew when his manner was rude, because it was his nature. He
could not help having a passionate mother, who flew into a fury when
her plans were crossed. So he smoked his cigar, and considered his next
step.
It was plain to him now, without need of thought—for he was not good
enough to be a fool—that something decisive might be done at once. He
knew what his mother was too well, to suppose that any arguments of
his, or any regard for his feelings, would ever induce her to consent
to his marriage with Kitty Fairthorn. And he knew that Kitty did not
like him (although he had never ill-used her), and in her old-fashioned
way would regard the relation of their parents towards one another as a
bar to any marriage between them. And he knew that her money, through
her father’s neglect, had been placed out of her disposal. But in spite
of all obstacles, he meant to have her, and her money afterwards.
Up to the present time, he had feigned to be the ally of Sir
Cumberleigh Hotchpot, and to forward his suit very warmly. At the same
time he had contrived to earn some gratitude from Kitty, and to make
her look upon him as her friend in need, by flying to her rescue now
and then, and sometimes even carrying off her too insistent suitor.
This he had been doing more and more, as his passion increased, and
jealousy combined with pity on her behalf. Thoroughly despising the
older villain, for his shallowness more than his villainy, he began to
hate him also for his insolence to the fair one. Having now declared
his own intentions, he must put a stop to all that stuff.
While he was thinking much more of these things than of his injured
mother, he heard a gentle but hurried knock at his door, and in came
Kitty. She was trembling and flushed, with some excitement, and her
beautiful hair was disarranged.
“Oh, Donovan,” she cried, for she never called him “Downy.” “I have
heard that your mother is very ill, and they are quite alarmed about
her. Sarah came in such a hurry for some bottle of my father’s; but I
was afraid to let her have it, for they have no idea how to use it.
Don’t you think you had better run for Doctor Yallop? They won’t let me
in to ask them, and I am afraid to go for him without orders.”
“No, Kitty, no. It is nothing more than usual. She would never see the
doctor, if he came; and it would only set her off again. Frizzy knows
best how to manage her. She has been in a great wax, even for her;
and she is just a bit frightened, as she ought to be. It will do her
a world of good, when she comes round, and teach her to take things
easier. But you look quite startled, my dear child. Give me a kiss, and
I will tell you all about it.”
Kitty obeyed, though with some reluctance. One of her many charms was
obedience, and she had often been told in the early days, that as they
were now one family, to exchange the friendly salute was proper. But
lately she had been surprised that Downy, after long indifference to
its value, had returned to this form of expressing esteem.
The young man had meant to defer for a while a declaration which must
be unwelcome at first. But he felt sure now that the first thing his
mother would do, as soon as she was well enough, would be to fall
on the poor maiden about it, and put it in the most outrageous way.
Much better for his cause that he should speak of it himself, and win
perhaps some credit for his defiance of Kitty’s natural foe. He was
always bold in word and deed, and now he spoke with as little fear as
grace.
“You must have seen, my dear, that lately I have been growing very fond
of you. You have seen that I always take your part when people go to
bully you. And why do you suppose I do it? Why, because I am so fond of
you.”
“Thank you, Donovan. I have often thanked you in my mind, though not in
words. Placed as we are, it is quite right that we should be fond of
one another.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that sort of thing at all. My mother married your
Governor; but that would only make it natural that we should hate one
another. And there is no love lost between you and Frizzy, or Jerry
either, so far as that goes. What I mean is that I am fond of you,
as—as a fellow is of his sweetheart. And I mean to marry you, indeed I
do, as soon—why, as soon as you like almost.”
Poor Kitty looked at him, as if he must be joking; or if it were not
that, he must have taken too much wine, as he did sometimes, especially
when he had been much with Sir Cumberleigh.
“How provoking you are, Kitty! There, sit down. You will get used to
the idea in about five minutes. Why, there’s nothing surprising in it,
I should think. Though you may have thought that I was looking higher.
But I have always had my own peculiar views. I can do without money,
and rank, and all that. And I have taken a real fancy to you. This is
enough to prove it, don’t you think? Give us your flipper, as that old
rogue says; for I mean business, upon my word I do. And I fancy it
won’t stick too much in your gizzard, that the old woman rages, like a
tiger, against it.”
“I can scarcely believe that you mean this. It is utterly impossible;
I don’t know how people take such things; but to me it is simply
horrible. Never speak of it again, if you wish me to speak to you.
Promise me never to speak of it again.”
“Very well. Settle it so, if you like. At any rate, for the present.
You have got hold of some queer ideas, I suppose. High Church
crotchets, or some such rubbish. You will come to think better of it,
by-and-by.”
“And by the holy poker, she shall be glad to do so,” he muttered to
himself when she was gone; “We will try a bold stroke, my pretty dear;
and you shall come on your knees to me, to marry you.”