THE GREAT LADY.
AT this time, I slept, or lay down to sleep, on a couple of good-sized
chairs in the kitchen, with a cushion laid along them, which had come
from my uncle’s pew in Sunbury church. He had established a new cushion
there, on the strength of my marriage and Kitty’s good clothes; and the
old one, being stuffed with sound horsehair, was not to be despised
when upside down. And to save all risk of rolling off, I set it against
the front legs of the dresser. The door of the room was left wide open,
and the front door also, unless the night was windy; for I had nothing
to lose, having lost my all; and I only wished that anybody would come
and try to rob me. It would have been bad for him, unless he had been
either Hercules, of Ulysses; for I was armed with recklessness, and
eager to tackle any open foe. Nervousness (such as a happy man may
feel, when he hears a strange noise in the dead of the night) was an
unknown power to me now, and I would have fought, like a bull-dog in
his own kennel, and enjoyed it. This was not the proper turn of mind
for a young man to indulge in. That I knew as well as could he; but the
blame lay elsewhere.
Although I was very stiff and sore from the bruises of that awkward
fall, I went at daylight to examine the place, where that stranger
must have stood. The ground was dry and hard just there; but I found
enough to show me that I had not been deceived by any trick of the
imagination. Not only had the soil been trodden by a foot unlike my
own, but the thick mat of the _Thuja_ tree had some of the lobed leaves
(which composed it and stood together like moss compressed), ruffled
and crushed into one another, as if by the thrust of a heavy form. Then
I went to the place where I had stood over against the peach-tree,
and put my hat on a nail to represent my height, and returning to the
clipped tree gazed through the nick of the fiddle at it, just as the
face had gazed at me. I was obliged to stoop, to bring my eyes to the
level at which those eyes had been; which showed that my visitor had
been of some three or four inches lower stature, probably not more than
five feet ten.
I could not trace his footsteps far, nor make out what kind of boots
he wore, except that there was no sign of hob-nails, such as all our
workmen had. It struck me that a man with such a face was not very
likely to hurry himself, and the ground bore no traces of hasty flight,
neither were the branches of the plum-trees (through which he must
have retreated) broken. Probably he had retired at his leisure, while
I was disabled from following. There were no signs of entrance to be
discovered at or near the door into Love Lane; all our men had left
work at the time of his visit, and no one had seen any stranger.
What on earth had he come for? was the question which arose, and could
not be answered. There was nothing much to steal just there, for
none of the tree-fruit was ripe; and though darkness forbade entire
certainty, I felt pretty sure that the owner of that face would call
himself a gentleman. It seemed to me better upon the whole to say
nothing about the matter, for my uncle would probably laugh at it, as
the product of my imagination; and as for the police, I knew too well
that they would make nothing out of it. Only it was evident to my mind
that this little adventure had some bearing on my trouble; and in
spite of the dusk, I could swear to that face, wherever I should come
across it.
My uncle would have stopped me from going to London, on account of the
injuries which I could not hide, for my hands as well as my knees were
cut. But I went by the ’bus, being very lame as yet, and unable to walk
without aid of a stick. Mrs. Wilcox received me very kindly, and I was
glad to find her business thriving, and the sharp boy released from the
pots, and growing very useful at the counter.
“It has done him a deal of good, indeed it has, Mr. Kit,” she said,
when I ventured to hint that his employment had not been elevating; “he
knows every soul it is safe to give tick to; and as for bad shillings,
of which I had a dozen, not one have we took since he come back. Ah,
what a tradesman he will make! But now, sir, about your poor dear self.
No one to stitch your knees better than that—ah, the righteous is
always punished in this earth.”
I told her exactly how things stood—that everything was as dark as
ever, that the neighbourhood had been searched in vain (as might have
been expected), that one or two false clues had been followed, not by
myself, but by the police, and that now I meant to take the matter
entirely into my own hands, as I should have done at first except for
a private reason, which I told her, to wit the disappearance of the
money. She was angry that this should have been allowed to hinder me
even for a day. But when I told her how it weighed upon my spirits,
and seemed to show that my wife was not at all in her duty to me,
Mrs. Wilcox sided with me, and said that every one must do the same,
whether I were right in the end or wrong. And then I asked her what she
thought; and she said that she was afraid to say.
“Not that I don’t know her, sir,” she proceeded when she saw my
disappointment; “as well as the inside of my own shoe, having had
her almost from the bottle, and cut the best of her teeth on my own
thumb. But they changes so, when they falls in love, as I know from my
own experience, though going on then for thirty-five, that to make a
prediction comes back on the mouth. I began it already; but it turned
out wrong; and I said to myself—‘If you want to be considered above the
average, as you always was, you better wait, and see how the cat jumps
first.’ For that is the way of the women, sir, in general.”
I was not in the mood to be satisfied with this, especially as she had
said the same thing to my uncle, as late as last Sunday. And gradually,
by coaxing her to begin, and then contradicting her upon some little
point of fact, I knew her opinions even better than my own, for my own
had less to go upon. For it must be borne in mind that most of what I
have entered about Sir Cumberleigh Hotchpot and Mr. Donovan Bulwrag
comes from knowledge which I obtained long afterwards; and none of it
was, in my mind as yet, beyond what my Uncle Corny and Sam Henderson
had said, and the little that had been dropped by Kitty, who had
scarcely had three weeks as yet to talk.
“Well, I shall do this,” I said at last to Mrs. Wilcox; “you have told
me many things which will enable me to get on. Nothing can be worse
than things are now; and the greatest enemy I have got—if I am good
enough to have an enemy—cannot say that I have shown impatience. I have
felt enough of it; but nobody knows but myself how close I have kept
it. I mean to make no disturbance now; but I shall just go and see the
great lady.”
“You’d better not, sir,” cried Mrs. Wilcox; “you would be like a dummy,
if she chose to speak out, and the humour might be on her. And you
can’t get nothing out of her, except hard knocks.”
“Hard words break no bones, any more than soft ones butter parsnips. I
shall go and see her, if I can, and that villain of a son of hers as
well. It is my duty to discover where my Kitty’s father is.”
“She won’t see you, Mr. Kit, unless it is to triumph over you. She
loves doing that, when any one is down. But you won’t have a chance of
seeing Mr. Downy. They say he is out of the country altogether, though
my little Teddy swears he saw him Sunday night, and I never knew him
go wrong about a face before. But he must be wrong this time, if there
is any truth in words. And generally always he comes down this road,
whenever he is at home.”
“At any rate, I shall ask for him. By-the-bye, what is he like, if I
should chance to meet him?”
“He have a great square face, sir, like the front of a big head, with a
lot of sandy hair both above it and below. And he comes along the road
with his eyes half-shut, just as if there was nothing worth looking at.
And his eyes are as yellow as new-run honey, and a few butter-spots
upon his cheeks, where you can see them. He is a square-built young
man, not so tall as you, but thicker, and his legs come after him as he
walks, and he looks as if he never could be in a hurry.”
“Thank you. I think I ought to know him now. It will be my own fault
if I don’t. Not a pleasant man to look at, if you do him justice, Mrs.
Wilcox. No wonder that people don’t seem to like him very much.”
“Ever so much worse to deal with than he is to look at, Mr. Kit. Keep
out of his way, sir, that’s my advice. I believe he is at the bottom of
your trouble somehow. Though what good he can get out of it surpasses
me.”
After begging her to keep a sharp look-out, and to send for me at once
if she saw anything suspicious, I made the best of my way towards
“Bulwrag Park,” and was amazed at the change a few months had wrought.
All the wilderness of work stood thick with houses, all the sloughs of
despond were firm hard roads, young trees were in leaf where surveyor’s
flags had waved, and public-houses blazed with glass and gilt where
bricks had smouldered. The Great Exhibition was in full swing, and the
long streets were alive with cabs and broughams. However, the old house
still looked grim and gaunt in its dark retirement, and the Scotch firs
near it were as black as ever; and I passed with a throbbing heart
the bay-tree which had sheltered my love and myself from the snow. I
ventured to gather a spray of this, and put it as a keepsake beside my
Prayer-book.
After two or three rings, I was admitted, and shown into the place I
knew so well, and it seemed to my fancy to be glistening still with the
tearful eyes of my darling. Then Miss Geraldine, the younger and more
gentle of the daughters, came and looked at me with some surprise, and
said that she would show me where her mother was, and I followed her
into a morning room.
The great lady looked as well as ever, and received me with a
stateliness which reminded me of her sister. She was beautifully
dressed, so far as I could judge, and seemed in high good humour, and
inclined to patronize me.
“Mr. Orchardson, I think you said, my dear? Mr. Orchardson, who married
our poor Kitty. Well, Mr. Orchardson, I hope that you are happy.
But surely—surely she did not do this? And if she did, you must not
appeal to us. Sometimes she forgot herself—but still—and quite in the
honeymoon—no, I am sure it cannot be.”
I was determined not to be provoked, although it was very hard upon me.
This violent woman was pretending to believe that the scratches on my
face, from last night’s fall, were inflicted by my dear wife’s nails.
I did not condescend to answer that; and I was certain that she knew I
had no Kitty now.
“I have ventured to intrude upon you,” I said, “upon a matter of
important business, madam. To ask if you will kindly tell me how I can
send a letter, so as to reach Captain Fairthorn. He is at sea, I know,
upon a voyage of exploration, or something like that; and it may be
very difficult to communicate with him. But I have a very important
message—”
“Nothing amiss with your poor wife, I hope. Oh, I should be so grieved,
if there were anything of that sort. She was flighty and wild; but with
all her faults, there was much that was good about her. You could never
see it, Geraldine, as I did. Please don’t tell me, Mr. Orchardson, that
after all your goodness to her—for few would have married her knowing
what she was—she has had the heart to deceive you.”
“No, she has never deceived me, madam; there is no deceit in her
nature. But—but for some good reason doubtless,—for the present she has
left me.”
No one can tell what it cost me to drag out these words to her arch
enemy, who was taking them in, like a draught of nectar, not only for
the fact—which she had known when it occurred—but for the anguish they
were costing me.
But she kept her countenance, like a mighty actress, that she might
quaff her enjoyment at leisure to the dregs.
“I cannot understand what you say, Mr. Orchardson. It is simply
impossible that poor Kitty, that your bride, that your dear wife you
were so wrapped up in, should—should have run away from you.”
“I cannot say whether she ran, or walked, or how she went—but she is
gone.”
“You astound me. Geraldine, you had better leave the room. Such things
are not fit for good young girls to listen to. Now, Mr. Orchardson,
tell me all about it. But first accept my sincere condolence. Although,
as you know, I was against the marriage, mainly for your sake, I can
assure you. I knew her so well—but so soon, oh, so soon! I could not
have expected it, even of her. And did she inflict these sad wounds,
before she went? A tender remembrance? Oh, it is so sad! But one thing
I must beg of you—do not be soured by it. Do not conclude, as most
young men would—that all women are bad, because this one has proved so
ungrateful to you. And after seven years of desertion, I believe you
will be at liberty to take a better wife.”
“I want no better wife. There could be no better wife. I love her
with all my heart, in spite of this mistake. And I will never look at
another woman, while I live.”
“What a noble husband! How could she run away? And doubtless with some
ignoble wretch—no other would have taken her from your arms. But when
did it happen? Do tell me all about it. And who has supplanted you,
so very, very quickly? One would hardly believe it in any story-book.
And you so devoted—oh, how your heart must ache! Do let me order you a
glass of wine.”
“No wine, thank you. And I cannot tell the story, which would only
increase your affliction, madam. Only one thing, in justice to my wife.
No one has supplanted me in her affection. She is as true to me, as I
am to her. She has been misled by some despicable trick. And, by the
God in heaven, I will kill the man who did it.”
“No horrible oaths before me, young man!” Her face, lips and all,
turned as white as a sheet, as I spoke with the whole fury of my soul
in voice and eyes,—the wrath of a quiet man wronged of his life.
Then we gazed into one another’s eyes, until she was obliged to turn
away.
“I could not expect you to have good manners,” she said, after sitting
down, and expecting me to begin; “if you behaved like this, before your
wife, there might be some excuse for her running away. She has been
used to the society of gentlemen.”
“And that she has had in a humble way, since she became my wife. You
must thank yourself for what I said; for you laboured to goad me up to
it. And I mean it, madam. I spoke with no profanity. I am not given to
swearing. Whoever has done me this foul wrong has ruined my life, and
shall pay for it with his own. Give him warning of this, if you know
who he is. I have nothing more to say than that.”
Fear for the moment overcame her fury. And I left that house, with the
firm conviction that my misery as well as my happiness, had proceeded
from it.