A MENSÂ ET TORO.
IT is out of my power to say, because I have never studied human
nature—having more than I can properly get through with trees and
animals—but according to the little I have seen, the spirit of revenge
is stronger in women, than it usually is in us. Whatever wrong a man
may have done me, if he only says that he is sorry for it, or if
without that I have got the better of him, I am quite content that
he should go, and settle the question as between him and the Lord. I
wish him no ill, but what he may do himself; and even if I hear of his
getting his deserts, I feel no elation, but endeavour to be sorry.
But my Uncle Corny, who understands the fair sex—at least according to
his own account—declares that they not only cannot forgive a deadly
wrong done to them, but continue to think that the world is a bad place
and sadly neglected by Providence, until they see the people, who have
made them unhappy, paying out for it, as they ought to do.
My Kitty was the very best of all her sex—which is saying a great deal
more than some men may imagine, and means much more than if it were
said of them—but still I could see that she was not contented even
with our new honeymoon (which was ten times sweeter than the first one,
though that had been most delicious), from a lofty desire for perfect
justice; which a man is quite satisfied to do without, knowing (as he
does) that otherwise he never could have satisfaction at all.
And yet I could see that she trembled, whenever she had hinted at that
little drawback, for fear of the danger that it might involve to me;
for she never seemed to think that I could take care of myself, as well
as she took care of me.
It is not for me to say, how these things are, or rather how they ought
to be; and I am free to acknowledge that if Downy Bulwrag had come down
meddling with my wife again, I should have killed him; and risked the
chance of being hanged for a fellow unworthy of it. And when I read
aloud that wicked letter, in the presence of Kitty and my uncle, the
next day, there were times when I longed to have him by the throat, and
prevent more lies coming out of it. For the Devil himself must have
stood at his elbow, and gone into his brain as well, while he was about
it. And he had made the ground ready for his lies to grow, by a black
mysterious note beforehand, signed—“A well-wisher in Sunbury.” This we
had not in our possession yet; but Kitty knew the effect of it upon her
father’s mind.
As I read the vile forgery, bearing my name, Uncle Corny fell back
in his chair, and shut his lips. Then he closed his fist also, and
from time to time he kept stamping with his boots, as if his feet
were tingling. But Kitty put her tender hand into mine, and her
breath was short, and her bosom heaved, and her eyes flashed like the
summer-lightning, or sometimes filled with heavy drops.
MY DEAR AND RESPECTED FATHER-IN-LAW,—“I have a sad
confession to make to you, which I ought to have
made long ago, but I knew that I must have lost your
daughter by it. I will not pretend to excuse my
conduct, for I know that I have behaved shamefully. But
I could not foresee the frightful danger to which she
is now exposed daily. My heart is almost broken, for I
love her wildly, savagely, and in plain truth madly.
“Last Autumn I committed a very base act, and I am
justly punished for it. To keep your sweet Kitty here a
little longer, and give me more chances of seeing her,
I was mean enough to steal Miss Coldpepper’s favourite
dog, a mongrel called _Regulus_. I hid him in my
uncle’s garden, while the country was being searched
for him; and thus, as perhaps you remember, I obtained
the honour of your acquaintance. But I was punished for
that sneakish trick. The cur bit me thrice in the legs
and thigh, and I am doomed to a horrible death I fear;
for the dog has gone mad, and the disease was in him
then.
“I have been, without any one’s knowledge, to the first
authority in London on such matters, and he says that
I ought to be watched, and must hold aloof from all
family ties for a while. He asked if I was married, and
then he told me the most horrible story I ever heard;
and he conjured me, unless I wished to kill my wife,
to separate from her for at least two years. When I
would not promise that, he was anxious to write to her
relatives himself; but I gave him a false address, and
nothing came of that.
“I hoped that he might be mistaken, but now I feel
that he was only too correct. Your Kitty is not safe
with me another day. I have the most awful sensations
sometimes. The malady has got hold of me too surely,
though nobody yet suspects it. I have felt a wild
desire to tear her to pieces; and the only atonement
I can make for my offence is to beg you to take her
immediately. You are likely to be away for about two
years; and when you return, if I am still alive, which
is most unlikely, I may safely reclaim her.
“I implore you not to let her know the cause of this
sad parting. It would keep her in awful suspense and
misery, and perhaps be as fatal to her, as I myself
should be. She is so good and dutiful, and trusts me so
entirely, that if you say it is my wish, for reasons
you approve of—however she may grieve about it, she
will not rebel. Come for her, or send for her, without
my knowledge, without the knowledge of any one near our
place; for if the story got abroad, I should go mad at
once. My only hope lies in perfect quiet; therefore she
must not write to me, and I must not hear a word, even
from yourself, about her. She must not stop to pack
up clothes, or anything whatever; for if I came in, I
should destroy her, if I saw it. But order particularly
that she shall take every farthing in the house she
knows of, to equip her for her long voyage in a seaport
town. The money is her own; and she must take it.
“I send this by hand, as I know not where you are; but
the bearer knows how to find you. There is no answer,
except to do what I implore most pitifully, if you wish
to save your only child from a fearful death, at the
hands of the one who loves her _so madly_. I pray God
that you may be yet in time. I feel a little calmer
after writing this. This morning I was in agony at the
sight of water. May the Lord have you, and my darling
in his keeping. Oh, how base I have been, but I have
done no murder yet!
“Your heart-broken son-in-law,
“C. ORCHARDSON.”
When I had finished, my uncle spoke; for Kitty could only press my
hand, and sometimes look at me, and sometimes turn her eyes away and
blush.
“These are the things,” my uncle said, “that make one ashamed of being
called a man. No snake could do such a thing, and no dog would, however
mankind might train him. And the bit of piety towards the end! The
father was a blackguard, the mother a Fury, the son is the Devil with
all his angels. Oh Kit, Kit, I am old, and have met with a great deal
of wickedness, but none like this.”
“But you know, Uncle Corny, you must not be disturbed,” said Kitty
going up to him, and kissing his forehead, in her sweet and graceful
way, “just because there happen to be bad people in the world. It has
always been so, and I fear it always must. And you must not imagine
that Kit meant any harm, by—by just borrowing Auntie Coldpepper’s dog.
He did it—oh, so cleverly—just for the sake of seeing me; and he quite
changed the character of that dog. But how can that bad man have found
it out?”
“Through Harker,” I exclaimed, “through that wretch of a Harker, who
was always spying on these premises. Sam Henderson knew it, most likely
through him; but Sam would never have spoken of it.”
“It is true, then,” said my uncle. “Well, I thought it was a lie. I am
surprised to find that I have a dogstealer for my nephew.”
“It was Tabby made him do it. And I am very glad she did. But the first
thing Dr. Cutler said to me, when my heart was nearly broken with his
message, was—‘Did your husband steal that dog?’ And of course I said
‘Yes;’ for Kit had told me all about it, when we were at Baycliff; and
no doubt that convinced the good doctor that all the rest of that sad
wicked letter was true. You know, Uncle Corny, that it was impossible
for my father to leave the ship, and he sent his old friend Dr. Cutler
to fetch me. Oh, how I did cry all the way! I thought there never would
be any more happiness for me. And of course they never told me why I
was to go. I thought that Kit must be tired of me; and yet I could not
quite believe that, you know. Oh, Kit, I shall never be tired of you.”
“Don’t cry, my darling,” said my uncle kindly. “We have had enough
tears to drown that devilish letter. Now sit on Kit’s lap, to make sure
of him, and tell me your own adventures, for I have only guessed them
yet.”
“Oh, I had no adventures, and I never noticed anything, only to ask
how far we were from England, and to count the days till we should
have finished all the work. I made a little calendar, as the girls do
at school, the girls I mean who have real mothers, and I blotted out
every day when it was over, and thought—‘one less now before I see Kit
again.’ Of course I asked my father what had made him send for me,
and he said it was my husband’s most earnest entreaty, and if I loved
him I must ask no more, but keep up my spirits and obey his orders.
Father never showed me this letter, or I think—though I can’t be quite
sure—that I should have doubted about it. The writing is exactly like
Kit’s in some places, but in others it is different, and the style
is not like Kit’s. That wicked man stole several letters of Kit’s; I
suspected it then, and now I know it.
“My father had not the smallest doubt, of course, but he was puzzled
when I spoke about that telegram, you know what I mean—the one from
Captain Jenkins at Falmouth, to say the ship was on her voyage, and to
send good-bye to us. He had sent no such message, and had spoken no
such ship, and said that it must be some extraordinary mistake. But you
see now it was another piece of falsehood, to make it look impossible
that I could be with my father.
“It was father himself who went to Baycliff to inquire, knowing that
we had been there, and being near it. But he could not come here, and
so he sent Dr. Cutler, who knows all this neighbourhood well, and
managed it all to perfection with the help of some one, who was sent by
agreement to meet him. Oh dear, when I think of that dreadful time; and
I was not allowed to leave a line for my husband, except what I wrote,
on the sly, in the Prayer-book. Well, that did him some good, at any
rate; didn’t it, my own darling?
“I am quite ashamed to talk of my own sorrow, when I think of what
Kit has been through for me. But I am sure I ate nothing for at least
a month, and Dr. Cutler, who was in charge of the health of the ship’s
company, became quite uneasy about me. As for their experiments,
deep-sea dredging, and soundings, and temperatures, and all that, I
did not even care to look at them, and I am not a bit more scientific
than when I went out, though perhaps I shall talk as if I was,
by-and-by. The only thing I felt any interest in was the rescue of a
poor afflicted man—I think they called him a Spaniard, though he seemed
to me more like an Englishman—who was kept as a prisoner among some
savages in a desert place in South America. He was terribly afflicted
with some horrible disease; and the sailors would not go near him,
until they were ashamed when they saw me do it. We were all very kind
to him, but he left us, and got on board another ship bound for home.
“Oh, how I used to tremble, Kit, whenever we saw a ship in the
distance, hoping for news of you, my dear, and of Uncle Corny, and
everybody. But we met very few ships, being generally employed in
out-of-the-way places, and only landing anywhere two or three times,
for water, or fruit, or vegetables.
“But when we got to Ascension Island, which is an English place, you
know, what a joyful surprise there was for me! I shall always bless
that little rocky spot, for it gave me back my life again. When father
received my husband’s letter, for the first time in his life, he was
in a real fury. Something or other had occurred before, besides that
affair of the telegram, which made him a little doubtful about this
wicked, wicked letter. And now he saw at once that he had been imposed
upon most horribly. We were all afraid that he would have had a fit,
but Dr. Cutler saved him.
“‘My poor injured child!’ he kept on exclaiming; ‘wretched for at
least a year, and injured for life, by this monstrous villainy!’ He
would have thrown up his command at once, if he could have done it
honourably, and brought me home by the very next ship. But if he had
done so, the cruise must have ended; for Lieutenant Morris, who was
next to him, was invalided at Fort George. I was quite ready to come
home alone, by any ship, English or foreign; but as it happened, Dr.
Cutler received by the same mail an urgent request from his wife for
his return; and so the very gentleman I ran away with brought me back
to my husband. It was a long time before we could get a ship, and then
it was only a sailing vessel, and oh how slowly she seemed to go! Then
about a month ago, we had a very heavy storm, which drove us I don’t
know how far out of our course, and I thought that I never should see
Kit again. But now it seems all like a horrible dream. Father will be
home, in November, I hope. I intend to work hard to help Uncle Corny;
and Kit will soon be well again, with me to mind him.”