THE DUCHESS.
ALL these things compelled me to think about them, because they were
so different from what might have been expected. When first I lost my
wife, and knew that I had been robbed of her, I made up my mind for
savage work, and nothing could be too wild for me. The greatest wrong
that man can do to man had been done to me; for a stab to the bodily
heart is better than the destruction of faith and love. But the care
for my dear wife’s good name, (which would have been blasted, if ever
it got abroad that she had eloped with the money), as well as many
other tender thoughts, had kept me quiet, and conduced to stop me from
any acts of violence. And this instinct of true love proved quite
right; as all will confess who care to know the end of it.
Straitened as I was with my own cares, and sometimes buried in them, I
could not help trying to lift if it were but the corner of the burden
imposed by Heaven upon a man a thousandfold better and more noble. The
only excuse I could make to myself, for the different way in which he
bore his grief, was that he was bound to do it as a clergyman, and
being so old, must be getting used to it. But I knew in my heart that
this was paltry stuff; and that the true reason of the difference was,
that he was a large man with faith in God; while I was a little one
relying upon self. There was no way before me to cure that, for no man
can set up his ladder on a cloud; still it did me good to know that he
had found staple support, and was steadfast upon heaven.
Mr. Golightly was not only a Christian, but a gentleman. Far as I was
below his rank in life, he never let me feel the difference, either by
word, or turn of manner, or even by tone of silence. He never inquired
into my affairs, though no indifference prevented it; and nothing was
further from his mind than the thought that he was doing good to me.
Being of a nature which requires something to love, I loved this man,
and never could see anything to laugh at in him, as my Uncle Cornelius
made believe to do.
I became restless if any day went by without my seeing him, and I
could not sleep on my two chairs, however tired I might be, without
the remembrance of his—“Good-night, God bless you, Kit”—which he
always gave me, in a gentle voice, and with a look which was itself
a blessing. And now I had been admitted to the acquaintance of his
darling; whom he loved as I loved Kitty, but with a holier sense and
fear. She was lying on a horsehair sofa, in his poorly furnished room;
for he was poor, as a good man is nearly always somehow. And I never
shall forget the look she gave me from her weary eyes, quite as if the
depth of kindness were enhanced by its want of power. And she rose upon
one wasted arm, and offered me a hand just like a white kid glove, that
has been drawn off.
“You have been very good to father;” she looked at my sunburnt face,
as if she would like to remember it somewhere else; “and what lovely
grapes you bring me! See, how greedy I have been!”
It was as much as I could do to keep my eyes from being like
grape-stalks; and I tried to drive my sorrow inwards, by thinking that
all of it was wanted there. But it would not do, and I turned away.
“What she wants is outdoor air;” I said, as soon as we left the room,
and her father asked me what I thought; and I said it more to hide my
own distress, than from any hope at all. “Outdoor air without exercise,
and with very gentle movement.”
“Sims, the flyman, is very good;” her father’s lips trembled as he
spoke, and he tried to make a smile of it; “he knows that we cannot
afford much carriage-hire, and he comes at half-price when he has
nothing else to do. But since the other spring broke, she can hardly
bear it. She fainted twice, the last time we went.”
“But the river, the water, the Thames!” I said, almost fearing to make
a suggestion so stale, “what can be more easy than the gliding of a
boat? Is that even too much for her?”
“Bessy has never tried it yet,” said the anxious father, pondering
much; “when I was at Oxford I loved the river; but I have not found
time for it for many years. And I fear it would be cold upon the water.”
“It is much more likely to be too hot;” I answered, with some wonder,
at the clear unselfishness of this man, who loved the river, yet lived
upon its banks, without ever taking boat, for fear of slighting duty;
“the sun strikes very strong upon the river; but after four o’clock it
is delightful. I know a boat that would exactly suit her. She can lie
upon the cushions in the stern. The weather is beautifully calm and
warm. Will you let me try it?”
He was loth to consent without leave from Dr. Sippets, which of course
was right enough; but the doctor said it was the very thing he was
going to recommend that very day; and as soon as the poor girl heard
of it, she would scarcely hear of any other thing. We had an old boat
of our own, but it was not nice enough for her; so I went as far as
Shepperton for the one of which I had spoken to him. This was a very
commodious affair, and the name painted on it was _The Duchess_,
obliterating the old name _Emmy Moggs_; for a genuine duchess had been
in it, while staying for her health at Walton. Phil Moggs was the
owner, and he raised his price, as soon as he had painted out his good
wife’s name. And he thought so much of this boat now—though described
by rivals as the washing-tub—that he always insisted on going with it.
However, he was not a bad sort of fellow, though belonging henceforth
by his own account, to the higher aristocracy. The cheaper men called
him “the Duke,” and he accepted the title without ill-will.
Regardless of expense, I hired boat and him, under private agreement
that Mr. Golightly should pay him half a crown, and suppose that all.
And we brought the young lady in a bath-chair to the bank, and shipped
her without any difficulty. And it was worth a lot of money to behold
her fair young face, delicate with dreams of heaven, taking the flush
of the firmer air, and gradually kindling with the joys of earth. She
looked at every tree we glided past, and every fair garden upon either
bank, and every feathered bend of hill and hollow, as if they were
coming to her in a dream, yet so that she could make friends of them.
At first her dear father clasped her hand, as if she could glide more
smoothly so; but soon she became more independent, and wanted both
hands, to point out her delight. Then the tears of kind pleasure came
into his eyes, and he turned away, and looked at the world for himself,
and thanked God for this little touch of happiness.
“Shall we rest a minute beneath this willow?” he said, as the sun drew
along the stream, and the myriad twinkles of bright air seemed to be
dancing to the silver chord of waves; then we slid into the silence of
a cool arcade, and I said,—
“It is high time for Moggs to have some beer.”
Mindful of this prime need of every British waterman, I had brought a
little stone jar from my uncle’s tap; and thinking that the savour of
this fine beverage might not be agreeable to our fair freight, I landed
on the island, with a wink to “the Duke;” and he very kindly followed
me. The Pastor knew well that his flock must be fed, and he extended
his knowledge to the neighbouring parish.
There was lemonade and strawberries for the weaker vessels; and while
they remained afloat, and entered into these, Moggs and I sat behind a
bush, and considered what was good for us.
“I suppose you don’t often come Sunbury way;” I said, just to lend a
little tongue to tooth-work; for I had bought some bread and a hunk of
bacon.
“Nobs goes mostly up the river, Chertsey, and Laleham, and the Mead,
and that likes,” Mr. Moggs replied, with his knife upon the bone.
“Ain’t been your way, pretty nigh three months.”
“Ah, but you had a nice time then. Very fine ale at the _Flower-pot_,
Moggs.”
“Well, so there he; but quite as good nigher home. And I likes my drop
of beer, without no water in it. Here’s your good health, Mr. What’s
your name.”
“Thank you, Moggs; and the same to you. But I don’t understand about
water in your beer.”
“Well, did ever you see a young ’ooman cry enough to fill a bucket, let
alone a boat? I pretty nigh wanted one of them tarpaulins. Just lost
her Daddy, the old man said to me. But he told me not to speak of it;
no more I did. But I found out arterwards all about it. Seems she come
from Molesey, though I took her t’other side.”
“From Molesey? I know a good many of the people there. The only man who
died there this summer, to my knowledge, was an old bachelor by the
name of Powell. What was this young woman’s name?
“Watson, or Wilson, I won’t be certain which. Never mind; I dare say
she’s all right by now. The more they takes on at first, the sooner
they gets shut.”
“But you took her on our side of the river, as you said. Did you go to
fetch her? What day was it? What was she like? Who sent you for her?
Where did you land her? How came you—”
“Look here, Mr. What’s your name. You hires my boat, and you hires me
to row; but not to go on about other people’s business.”
“But it may be my own business, Philip Moggs. And you may get into
desperate trouble, by refusing to tell me all you know of it.”
“Not a bit feared of that,” the old man answered; “I’ve a-knowed
hundreds get into trouble with too much clacking, but never one the
other way.”
He shut up his mouth, and looked like an old villain of a horse I had
seen at Sam Henderson’s, who had pits above his eyes, and ears that
stuck back like a gun-cock, and a nose that was as wiry as a twisted
toasting-folk. This was a man who would whistle on his own nails to
warm them, but not to warn another man from going down a weir-pool.
“Well,” I said, “never mind; I don’t suppose it matters”—for I was
able to master my manners now, after three months of endurance; “only
somebody has a bit of money upon something; and you might cut in for
it, if you gave a hand. But I’ll be bound you know nothing about it,
after all. You fellows, who are always on the water, dream all sorts of
stuff, just as I did this afternoon.”
“Then, Mister, I’ll just keep my dreaming to myself. I did hear of
something queer down your way. But least said, soonest mended. Time to
be shoving off again.”
On the homeward row, I did my best to drive out of my mind all
thought of this ancient mariner, and his story. And he feigned not
to be thinking of it; though I caught his wrinkled eyelids dropping
suddenly at the sudden glances which I cast upon him. He was watching
me narrowly, when I looked away; and I thought it likely that he would
land again when he had discharged us, and try to learn all about me in
the village. For we at Sunbury knew but little of the Shepperton people
at that time, looking on it rather as a goose-green sort of place,
benighted, and rustic, and adverse to good manners. Shepperton, without
equal ground, despised us, as a set of half-Cockneys, and truckling for
the money of London, which they very nobly contemned, because they got
so little of it. If anything exciting came to pass at Sunbury, these
odd people shrugged their shoulders, and talked about Bow Street, and
Newgate, and the like; as if they belonged to Middlesex, and we to
London. However, there can be no doubt which is the finer village.
I was much dissatisfied with myself, when I came to think of it, for
allowing as I did this boatman’s story so to dwell upon my mind, that
even the fair invalid in the stern lost many little due attentions. But
happily she fell fast asleep, being sweetly lulled by the soft fine
air, and the dreamy melody of waters. Her long eyelashes lay flat in
the delicate hollows of her clear white cheeks, where a faint tinge of
rose began to steal, like the breath of a baby angel.
“How beautiful she looks!” I whispered to her father, as he gazed at
her; and he answered—“Yes. How can I bear it? It is the beauty of a
better world.”
But he was in livelier mood about her, when we took her gently home;
and she rose from the chair with a rally of strength, and he said,
“Well, Bessy, how do you feel now?”
“As if I wanted a good tea,” she answered; “and as if I never could
thank this gentleman for the pleasure he has given us.”
I wondered whether in trying ever so feebly to give pleasure, I might
have won, without earning, some great good for myself; and off I went
(after proper words) to follow the course of the _Duchess_.
In a minute or two, I had gained a spot which commanded the course of
the river; and there I perceived that the unmistakable Moggs, instead
of hastening home, was resting on his oars to watch the bank, and make
sure that no one was watching him. I slipped into a quiet niche, which
made me think of Kitty; for here I had seen her surveying the flood, in
the days of my early love for her. It had been a happy place that day;
would it help me once again?
Presently Moggs made up his mind, if haply it had been wavering; and
pulling into the evening shadows, sought a convenient landing-place.
Then he fastened the _Duchess_ to a stump, and stiffly made his way
towards that snug little hostelry the _Blue Anchor_, favoured by most
of our waterside folk.
“That will do,” thought I; “he has conquered his contempt of Sunbury.
He is going to pick up all he can about me. There must be something in
it. And now for the Molesey story.”
Without delay I returned to our village, and through it hastened to the
landing, where our ancient boat was kept. There was no fear of meeting
Moggs down here, for he was a good half-mile above. Pulling leisurely
down stream, I began to think how stupid we had been in our inquiries,
at least if my present idea proved correct. But the policemen, to whom
we had entrusted the first part of the search, must bear the blame of
this stupidity. They had not failed to make inquiry among the boatmen,
and along the river; although their attention had been directed chiefly
to the roads and railway. But they had assumed throughout that the
fugitive must have gone towards London, and as regarded the Thames,
they had only cared to inquire much down stream. Up the river there was
as yet no railway, and no important road; and with their usual density,
they had searched but very vaguely hereabout.
At Molesey I had friends who knew every item of what happened there;
and they soon convinced me that no young woman weeping for her father’s
recent loss was likely to have quitted that good village, east or
west, at the time in question. Therefore Phil Moggs had been deceived,
whether by his passenger or others, as to that part of the story.
I was greatly surprised to find how little the general mind of Molesey
seemed to be concerned about my case. Few seemed even to have heard of
it; and the few who did know something knew it all amiss, or had put
it so, by their own imaginations. Indeed I could scarcely have guessed
that the story, as recounted there, had aught to do with my poor humble
self. Even Uncle Corny—great in fame at Sunbury, and even Hampton,—was
but as a pinch of sand flung from a balloon, to these heavy dwellers in
Surrey!