COLD COMFORT.
IN the calm May night, I left my desolate home, to learn the cause
and meaning of its desolation. Some men might have doubted whether it
was worth their while to trace the dark steps of their own reproach.
From what I had seen even now, I knew that my wife had left me of
her own accord. There was not the smallest sign of struggle, or
disorder, anywhere; nothing whatever to suggest that any compulsion
had been used, or even that any stranger’s foot had crossed our humble
threshold. Of this I should learn more by daylight; and I took care not
to slur the chance, by even treading the little path that led to the
old door in the wall. There was a grass edging to that path, betwixt
it and a row of espalier apple trees in full bloom now; and along that
grass I made my way, with a bull’s-eye lamp in my hand, as far as the
leaden-coloured door, of which old Tabby had asked a few hours ago.
Without stepping in front of that door, I threw the strong light upon
it, and perceived at once that it had been opened recently. It was now
unbolted and unlocked, and kept shut only by the old thumb-latch. This
I lifted, and stepped outside, keeping close to the post, so as not to
meddle with any footprints, within or without. Then I cast my light on
the dust outside, for the weather had lately been quite dry; and there
I saw distinctly the impress of my darling’s foot. I could swear to it
among ten thousand, with its delicate springy curves; for her feet in
their boots had the shapely arch and rise of a small ox-tongue; and
ladies did not wear peg-heels then, to make flat feet seem vaulted.
By the side of that comely footprint were the marks of a coarser
and commonplace shoe, short and square, and as wide as it was long,
probably the sign pedal of a clod-hopping country boy, or lad. Of
these there were some half-dozen, as if the boy had stamped about as
he entered, and repeated the process when he returned. “I will examine
these carefully, when the sun is up,” thought I; “I must see to other
matters now.”
So I hurried at once, by the shortest track, to the lower corner of
the gardens, where my uncle Corny lived. Tabby Tapscott was gone home,
and the house all dark and fast asleep, for I must have lost an hour
in my agony on the bed, besides all the other time wasted. At last my
thunderous knocks disturbed even the sound sleep of the grower; and he
flung up a window, and looked out, with a nightcap over his frizz of
white hair.
“It is no time for anger,” I replied to his hot exclamations; “come,
and let me in. I want your advice. I am ruined.”
My uncle was thoroughly good at heart; when he came down with a light,
and saw the ghost he had let in, he was very little better than his
visitor. He shook, as if old age were come upon him suddenly, while I
tried to tell my tale.
“My Kitty gone, and gone of her own accord!” he cried, as if he, and
not I, had lost her. “Man, you must be mad. Are you walking in your
sleep?”
“God send that I may be! But when shall I awake?”
The old man’s distress, and his trembling anguish, let loose all the
floods of mine; I fell against the wall, where he hung his hats and
saws, and sobbed like a woman who has lost her only child.
“Come, come,” he said; “we shall both be ashamed of this. Your darling
is not dead, my boy; but only lured away by some d——d trick. Don’t
blame yourself, or her. I will answer for her, sooner than I would for
myself in this bad world. You shall have her back again, Kit; you
shall have her back again. There is a God, who never lets us perish,
while we stick to Him.”
“I have not stuck to Him. I have stuck to her.” The truth of my words
came upon me like a flash. It was the first time I had even thought of
this.
“Never mind. He knows; and He meant it so,” my uncle replied with some
theology of his own; “no man will be punished for doing what the Bible
orders. You’ll see, my dear boy, it will all come right. You will live
to laugh at this infernal trick. And I hope to the Lord, that I shall
be alive to grin with you. Cheer up, old fellow. What would your Kitty
think, to see you knock under to a bit of rigmarole? You must keep up
your spirits for poor Kitty’s sake.”
To see an old man show more pluck than a young one, and to take in a
little of his fine faith, set me on my pins again, more than any one
would believe; and I followed him into his kitchen, where the remnants
of the fire were not quite dead.
“Now blow it up, Kit,” he said; “and put a bit of wood in. Tabby
always leaves it in this cupboard. Ah, that was a fine tree, that old
Jargonel! It lived on its bark, I believe, for about a score of years,
and you helped to split it up, when you were courting Kitty. You shall
court her again, my boy, and have another honeymoon, as they’ve cut
yours short in this confounded way. Now, make a good fire, while I
put my breeches on. You look like a ghost, that has never had a bit
to eat. And I don’t suppose you have touched a morsel to speak of,
since breakfast. ‘Never say die’ is my motto, Kit. We’ll be at the
Police-office, by three o’clock. We can do nothing till then, you know.”
Even as he spoke, his ancient cuckoo sang out one o’clock; and I obeyed
his orders, and even found a little comfort in the thought, that Kitty
would have smiled to see my clumsy efforts; for she was very knowing
about making fires up. When I had contrived to eat a bit of something,
which my uncle warmed up for me, though I never knew what it was, he
gave me a glass of old ale, and took a drop himself; and we talked of
our calamity, until it was time to go. He asked me whether anything
within the last few days could be called to mind that bore at all upon
this sudden mystery. Whether any jarring words, however little thought
of, had passed between my wife and me, as is sometimes the case, even
when a couple are all in all to one another. But I could remember none,
nor any approach to such a thing; and I had never seen a frown upon my
darling’s forehead.
Then he told me what he had heard about his former tenant, Harker,
the man whom he ejected by a fumigating process, much more successful
than the ejectment of the frost. It was nothing more than this, and
even this perhaps a piece of idle village gossip. Old Arkerate had
taken much amiss his tardy expulsion, for he meant to live rent-free
through winter, and had been heard to say that he would be—something
anticipatory perhaps of his final doom—if that blessed young couple
should be in his house very long. For he knew a trick worth two of
that. And if he had been smoked out, hang them, they should be burned
out.
I agreed with my uncle that such stuff as this was not worth repeating,
especially as nothing of the kind had come to pass; and yet again
it appeared suspicious that the door through which my dear wife had
vanished should be the very one which old Harker had used for his
special entrance and exit; while he had even been jealous of any
attempt on the part of the owners to use it. But my uncle and myself
were uncommonly poor hands at anything akin to spying. Our rule had
always been to accept small fibs (such as every man receives by the
dozen daily) without passing them through a fine sieve; which if any
man does, he will have little time for any other employment.
“Take this big stick, Kit; I brought it for the purpose,” said my
uncle, when I had knocked a dozen times in vain, at the door of
Sergeant Biggs, our head policeman; “it is the toughest bit of stuff I
have ever handled. It will go through the panel of the door, before it
breaks. Don’t be afraid, my boy; take both hands; but let me get out of
the way, before you swing it. Ah, that ought to bring him out. But we
must make allowance for the strength of his sleep, because he has such
practice at it, all day long.”
Our police force at that time consisted of two men, Sergeant Biggs the
chief officer, and Constable Turnover; very good men both, and highly
popular. They were not paid by any means according to their merits;
and we always got up a Christmas-box for them, which put them on their
honour not to make a fuss for nothing. It is wise of every place to
keep its policemen in good humour; otherwise it gets a shocking name,
without deserving it.
“Coming, master, coming. Don’t you be in such a hurry,” we heard a very
reasonable voice reply at last. “Got one leg into these here breeches,
and can’t get in the other, ’cos they wasn’t made for me. Ah, there
goes that blessed stair into my bad leg again! They promised to mend
it, last Lady Day twelve-month; but mend it they won’t, till I’ve got
a running sore. Now, gents both, what can I do for you? Always at the
post of duty. That’s the motto of the Force. Why, bless me, if it isn’t
Mr. Orchardson! Any delinquents in your garden, sir?”
“Ever so much worse than that,” replied my uncle; “Biggs, are you wide
awake? A dreadful thing has happened. Where is Turnover? We shall want
you both at once.”
“On duty, sir; patrolling—unless he have turned in. But he’s very good
for that, when I looks after him. Which I do pretty sharp, as he knows
to his credit. A very active constable is Turnover. But come inside,
Mr. Orchardson. Don’t stand out in the cold, sir.”
There was a streak of dawn among the trees towards Hampton, and the
white frost-fog had rolled up from the river; and I saw that a dark
cloud was gathering in the south. The change that my uncle had foretold
was coming even sooner than he had expected it.
We went inside; and Sergeant Biggs, who had a light, pulled on a coat,
and sat down in state before a railed desk, on which a square book was
lying. Then he turned the brass cover off the ink, and squared his
elbows.
“Now, sir, the particulars, if you please. We must make entry, afore
we does nothing. You were quite right in coming to head-quarters, Mr.
Orchardson. Let me see; May the fourteenth, isn’t it?”
“No, Biggs, no. It is morning now; and yesterday was the fifteenth of
May.”
“Quite right, sir. Here it is upon the _Standard_. May 16th, 1861, 3.30
a.m. by office clock. Information received from Cornelius Orchardson,
of the Fruit-Gardens, Sunbury. Everything ready, sir. Please to go
ahead.”
“Kit, you tell him. You know most about it. Scratch out ‘Cornelius;’
and put ‘Christopher,’ Biggs.”
Sergeant Biggs did not like to disfigure his book. However, he was a
most obliging man. “Stay, sir, stay,” he exclaimed: “I can do it better
and neater than that is. ‘Cornelius Orchardson, of the Fruit-Gardens,
Sunbury, and his nephew Christopher Orchardson.’ That meets the point
exactly. Now then, gentlemen, fire away. And I will reduce it into
proper form.”
Chafing at all this rigmarole, which was sending another good hour
to waste, I poured out my tale in a very few words, and had the
satisfaction of seeing at last an expression of amazement gathering and
deepening on the large fat countenance of Sergeant Biggs.
“Why this beats everything as was ever done in Sunbury, since Squire
Coldpepper’s daughter ran away! And in the same family, too, as you
might say! How long ago was that? Why, let me see.” He was going to
refer to some books, and took off his horn spectacles first to consider
where they were.
“Come along, Biggs. No time for that,” cried my uncle impatiently; “we
want you to come and examine the place at once. It was useless for us
to go up, till daylight. There are footsteps for you to examine, and
the doors.”
“Now this here will be all over London, afore the clock strikes twelve
to-day. Ah, you may stare, gentlemen; and we don’t tell how we do it.
But such is our organization, and things are brought to such perfection
now—”
“Come along, Biggs. Why, it’s pouring with rain! I knew the white
frosts were sure to bring it. But I did not expect it till the
afternoon. And it sounds like hail—shocking thing for all my blossom.”
“I’ll be with you, Mr. Orchardson, in about ten minutes. But I must
put my toggery to rights first, you see. Sergeant Biggs does not think
much of himself; but Sunbury does, and it would stare to see him go
on duty without any waistcoat or stock, or even a pair of braces on.
By-the-bye, gents, have you been to Tompkins’ house?”
This was about the first sensible thing he had said; and I answered
that we had not been there yet; but would go there at once, as it was
not far out of our course, and we would rejoin him at the cottage. I
had thought more than once in the long hours of that night of going to
see the girl Polly, but was loth to knock up a hard-working household
for nothing, and felt sure that Polly could throw no light upon the
matter: as she always left our cottage about five in the afternoon.
And so it proved when we saw her now. For she could only stare, and
exclaim, “Oh Lor’!” having most of her wits, which were not very
active, absorbed in hard work, and the necessity of living. And the
more I examined her, the more nervous she became, fancying that she
was undergoing trial, and perhaps likely to be hanged for the loss of
her young mistress.
“I never see nawbody take her away: nor nawbody come anigh the house,
all the time as I were in it. Mother knows I didn’t.” This she said
over and over again.
“Nobody says that you did, Polly,” I answered as gently as possible;
“but did you see anything to make you think, that your mistress meant
to go away, when you were gone?”
“I don’now what she was athinking of. She never told me nort about it.
No, I never see nawbody take her away. It isn’t fair, nor true, to say
so.”
“But, my good child, nobody supposes that you did. Nobody is blaming
you in the least. Nobody thinks that you saw her go away. But can’t
you tell us whether you saw anything to show that she was likely to go
away?”
“Yes, I saw a big black crow come flying right over the roof about one
o’clock; and then I knowed as some one was agoing, ’live or dead. But I
never told her, feared to frighten her. Lord in heaven knows I didn’t.”
“And did you see anything else go by? A cat, or a dog, or a man or a
woman, or anything else that did not usually come? Or did you hear any
steps, anywhere near the house, or see anything more than usual?”
Polly shook her head, as if I was putting a crushing weight of thought
on the top of it. And then she began to cry again, and her mother came
up to protect her. She had cried when she heard that her mistress was
gone; and she must not be allowed to cry again, or no one could tell
what would come of it.
“Sweetie, tell the whole truth now. Got no need to be frightened.
If perlice does come, they can’t do nothing at all to you, my dear.
Seventeen children have I had, and none ever put thumb on the Bible.”
Mrs. Tompkins did not mean that her family failed to search the
Scriptures, but that they had never been involved in criminal
proceedings; nay, not even as witnesses.
“Well then, I think as I did see summat,” replied Polly under this
encouragement. I would not have pressed her as I did, unless I had felt
pretty sure that she was keeping something back. “It worn’t nothin’ to
speak of much, nor yet to think upon, at the time.”
“Well, out with it, deary, whatever it was. All you have to do, is to
speak the truth, and leave them as can put two and two together, to
make out the meaning of it.”
Thus adjured, Polly, after one more glance to be sure that no policeman
was coming, told her tale. It was not very much, but it might mean
something.
“’Twur about four o’clock, I believe, and all the things was put back
again after mucksing out the rooms, when missus said to me, ‘You run,
Polly, and pick a little bit of chive down the walk there. I don’t want
much,’ she says, ‘but what there is must be good, and just enough to
cover a penny-piece, after I’ve chopped it up and put it together. I
wants to have everything ready,’ she says, ‘just to make a homily when
my husband comes home. I have got plenty of parsley in that cup,’ she
says, ‘but he always likes a little bit of chive, to give it seasoning.
And be sure you pick it clean,’ she says, ‘and it musn’t be yellow at
the tip, or dirty, because if the grit gets in,’ she says, ‘it’s ever
so much worse than having none at all.’ So I says, ‘All right, ma’am, I
knows where it is; and you shall have the best bit out of all the row.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ she says, ‘don’t be longer than you can help,
and you shall have a cup of tea, Polly, before you go home, because
you’ve worked very well to-day; nobody could ’a doed it better,’ says
she. Well, I took a little punnet as was hanging in the kitchen, not
to make it hot in my hands, you see, and I went along the grass by the
gooseberry bushes,—you knows the place I mean, mother; and there was
the chives, all as green as little leeks. As I was a-stooping over
them, with my back up to the sky, all of a sudden I heer’d a sort of
creak like, as made me stand up and look to know where it come from.
And then I seed the old door, as used to be bolted always, opening just
a little way, in towards me, though I was a good bit off; and then the
brim of a hat come through, and I sings out, ‘Who’s there, please?’
There wasn’t no nose or eyes a-coming through the door yet; nor yet any
legs, so far as I could see; but only that there brim, like the brim
of a soft hat; and I couldn’t say for certain whether it were brown
or black. ‘Nothing here to steal,’ I says, for I thought it wor some
tramp; and then the door shut softly, and I was half a mind to go and
see, whether there was any one out in the lane. But it all began to
look so lonely like, and I was ordered not to stop, and so I thought
the best thing was to go back, and tell the missus. But something came
that drove it out of my mind altogether. For when I got back to the
house she says, ‘Don’t you lose a minute, Polly, that’s a good girl.
Run as far as Widow Cutthumb’s, and fetch half a dozen eggs. I thought
I had four, and I have only got three,’ she says, ‘and I can’t make a
homily for two people of three eggs. And my husband won’t eat a bit,
unless I has some,’ she says.
“So I was off quick stick to Widow Cutthumb’s; and there, outside the
door, I seen that Bat Osborne, the most owdacious boy in all Sunbury.
‘Halloa!’ says he, ‘Poll, you do look stunnin’. Got a baker’s roll
a-risin’, by the way you be a-pantin’! Give us a lock of your hair,
again’ the time when we gets old,’ he says. And afore I could give him
a box on his ear, out he spreads his fingers, some way he must have
learned—for I never could ’a doed it myself, no, that I couldn’t—and
away goes all my black-hair down over all my shoulders, just the same
as if it was Sunday going on for three years back. That vexed I were,
I can assure you, Mr. Kit—well, mother knows best how I put it up that
very same morning for the cleaning, and our Annie to hold the black
pins for me—but get at him I couldn’t, to give him one for himself. He
were half across the street, afore I could see out; and he hollered out
some imperence as made all the others grinny. But I’ll have my change,
afore next Sunday week, I will.
“When I got back, Mr. Kit, you may suppose, all about the door and the
hat-brim was gone clean out of my mind, as if it never was there; and
I come away home, without a word about it, and never thought of it
nother, till I lay awake in bed and heered our own door creak, when
father went to spy the weather. But oh, if I had only thought about it,
Mr. Kit, perhaps missus mightn’t never ’a been took off!”