HER OWN WAY.
“YOU must not let it drop, Kit; you can’t let it drop,” said Aunt
Parslow, as she sat in our parlour, the next day, having ordered
Parker’s fly, as soon as she received my letter; “for the sake of your
sweet wife, you are absolutely bound to expose this horrid miscreant.
I doubt if there ever was such a case before, though nothing ever
surprises me. It was very nasty of you to steal that dog—why, you
might have come and stolen _Jupiter_, on the very same principle of a
pretty girl—and you have been punished, even more than you deserved.
You deserved a month in the stocks perhaps, with all the dogs in the
village sniffing at you; but you did not deserve to lose your own wife,
just when you had time to get fond of her. I am not for revenge; I am
too old to fancy that we can do much to right ourselves, even if the
feeling was Christian; but I belong to an honourable family, in which
the fair fame of a lady was never neglected.”
“I declare I never thought once of that; it never occurred to me in
that light,” I answered with perfect truth; for my Kitty’s fair fame
seemed to me so entirely above all question, that it could not need any
assertion; “but since it is capable of being looked at so, there is no
doubt what my duty is.”
“No husband of proper spirit could doubt for a moment what his duty
is.” Miss Parslow spoke very severely; but my wife looked at her
reproachfully, and ran up to me.
“No, Kit, no. You shall not go near him. There is nothing too bad for
him to do. I have lost you quite long enough already. What do I care
what anybody says? Miss Parslow, you have been wonderfully kind, and it
is impossible to thank you. Don’t spoil it all, by putting this into
his head.”
“My dear, we shall send the two policemen with him,” my aunt replied
rather sarcastically; “we know how precious he is, and we won’t have
him hurt. Or perhaps your Uncle Cornelius might go. He has no wife, to
make a to-do about him. Look, here he comes with somebody, to tell us
something! He walks like a man of thirty-five, and how polite he always
is!”
Uncle Corny had brought Mrs. Wilcox from his house, and that good lady
was in great excitement. She fell upon Kitty, and kissed and hugged
her, until I thought really there had been enough of that; and then she
turned round, and addressed us at large, casting forth her words with
vehemence, and throwing out her hands, as if to catch them.
“Ladies, and gents, oh ladies and gents, such a thing have just come to
my knowledge through Ted, which is the most intellectuous boy, though
my own child, and was never such myself. I set off straightway, when
I heard it, and beg to excoose of my present disapparel, to catch the
three ten ’bus, or else wait another hour. And if there is a good horse
on the place, which by the look of it there must be many, I do beg of
Master Kit to put him in at once, if not too late to prevent bloody
murder. Them police is so slow, so slow; though I never join in a
single word against them, for all morshal men is fallible.”
“I can’t make out what it is,” said Uncle Corny, when we all looked at
him, for an explanation; “this good lady must be allowed her own time;
I am afraid that I have hurried her.”
“Not at all, Mr. Orchardson, not at all. Nothing could be more
gentlemanly, and I will say the same of all Sunbury. But the wedding
was to be to-morrow, gents, regardless of expense, at eleven o’clock,
at the church of Saint Nicholas, the Virgin. It was not for me to
forbid the banns, though knowing of holy impediments. Very handsome it
was to be with six bridesmaids, Miss Frizzy and Miss Jerry for two of
them. Cook, who is a very self-respected young woman, though Ted says
she have turned forty-two, and no concern of his if she is even two and
forty, she dropped in promiscuous and told me all about it, and all was
as merry as a marriage-bell. But just as I was having my bit of dinner,
in she comes with her cap-ribbons flying off, and her apron-strings
burst, being rather stout with running.
“‘For God’s sake, come up, Mrs. Wilcox,’ she says ‘or there’ll be
murder done, murder done, and nobody to see it.’
“I was there in two minutes, as you may suppose; and there was madam,
tearing up and down the front walk, with her black silk cloak on that
makes her look so tall, and her face—oh, you should have seen the
colour of it, and the flashing of her eyes, and the waving of her
arms. ‘I insist upon knowing. I insist upon going in. Am I going to
be locked out of my own house? To-morrow, indeed! Don’t talk to me of
to-morrow. How dare you prevent me from entering my own door? I’ll find
out your disgraceful tricks, and expose you. You are not fit to marry a
respectable girl. I’ll send for a policeman, and have the door forced.’
“‘You won’t do anything of the kind,’ her son Mr. Downy made answer
quietly, although I could see that he was awful pale, and he sat on
a kitchen chair in front of the door, with his broad shoulders set
against it. ‘I tell you it is for your sake that I will not allow it.
You may walk about all night, but you won’t walk in here.’
“Ladies, and gents, she kept pacing up and down, like a Beelzebub more
than a mortal woman, raving and ranting to such a degree, that a crowd
of people came and looked over the gate, and they began to cry, ‘Bravo,
Rous!’ ‘Go it, old lady!’ ‘Hit him hard, he ain’t got no friends’—and
all that stuff; you know how free and easy a London crowd is. Then she
marched up to the gate, and looked at them, and they fell away ashamed,
and she walked into the house. But have her way she will, before the
sun goes down. She has sworn it, and she never breaks her oath.”
“It is no concern of ours,” said my uncle very sensibly; “what have we
to do with such family quarrels? What made you come to us, Mrs. Wilcox?”
“Two things, sir; in the first place, you know more of the law than any
gentleman I know. You remember how you told me that last winter, and
every word you said came true as gospel. And what is more than that,
poor Miss Jerry, and Miss Frizzy backed her up in that same, she says
to me—‘Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, do try to get that nice young man from Sunbury,
that married poor Kitty Fairthorn. He has more power over mother than
any one on earth. She is afraid of him, that’s the truth, though she’d
box my ears if she heard me say so. ‘There might be time enough,’ she
says, ‘if you’d set off directly, and I’ll pay all expenses.’ Well,
I thought it must come from Heaven that I should be thinking of the
uncle, and she of the nephew; and so come, both gents, I beg of you;
there’ll be murder between them, if you don’t; for the police can’t
interfere, you know.”
“Kit, let us go,” said my Uncle Corny, as some new idea struck him; “we
cannot interfere of course, but we can see the end of it.”
Kitty was very much against my going, and I would not have left her,
unless Miss Parslow had promised to stay with her, until our return,
although it would compel her to send back the fly, and beg a bed for
the night from her old friend Sally.
My uncle took a big stick, and so did I; and in a quarter of an hour
we started in the tax-cart, with Mrs. Wilcox on the cushion. I was
the driver, and my uncle sat behind, for there was no room for three
of us, all rather broad, in front. And certainly I was the calmest of
the three, for the good lady was in a dreadful fright and fret; and my
uncle sat heavily, with his chin upon his stick, taking no notice of
the roads or streets, but dwelling on the distance of bygone sorrow.
The wrong he had suffered was greater than mine in one way, and less
in another; greater, because it was incurable; lighter, because less
cold-blooded and crafty, and not inflicted on him through his own wife.
But I, with my Kitty recovered, and still in the new delight of that
recovery, had triumphed already in the more important part, and was
occupied rather with contempt than hatred. And it seemed to me too
an extraordinary thing, and the last I should ever have predicted,
that I should be entreated by the daughters of that most naughty and
headstrong woman, to come and exert for her own good my imaginary power
over her.
We put up our cart at the _Bricklayer’s Arms_, where Ted had been
pot-boy—or potman he called himself—and then we all hurried towards
Bulwrag Park. The midsummer sun had just gone down; and as the red
light glanced along the broad stately roads, I thought of the words of
that violent lady—“before the sun goes down, I will have my way.”
We passed between some posts into the open space, coveted vainly
by builders, where the old Scotch firs (which had been my Kitty’s
landmark) still waved their black pillows against the western sky. Then
a number of people came rushing by us, driven by that electric impulse,
which flashes through the human heart that human life is passing. With
the contagion of haste we began to run.
“Can’t come in. Nobody allowed past this rope.”
A posse of policemen had drawn a cord across the road, outside the old
gate, because that was a very poor obstacle; and now I dare say there
were a hundred people pushing; and in five minutes there would be a
thousand.
I said, “I am Professor Fairthorn’s son-in-law, and the two young
ladies have sent for me. And Mrs. Wilcox is an old servant of the
family, who was sent in haste to fetch me.”
They dropped the rope at this, and let us in; being reasonable, as the
police are generally, unless you rub their coats up the wrong way of
the cloth.
But what a sight we had, when once we turned the corner! Having never
been brought up in battle-fields, but only where apples and pears grow,
I found myself all abroad, and felt my legs desirous to go away from
one another. But my uncle laid hold of me, and said—“This is what it
comes to. The man, who has been a man, may look on at the Devil.”
Mrs. Wilcox turned back; for her nerves were rheumatic; but they would
not let her pass the rope again. I was looking round, and saw it, with
a desire to do the same; but my uncle had me by the collar, and I knew
that he was right, though I would rather not have known it.
“Stop, and see the works of God,” he said. And I answered—“No, I would
rather not, if this is a sample of them.”
For before the front door there were things going on, which made it
impossible to let that house after it came into our possession, even to
a most enlightened widow from America—or at any rate she took it, and
then threw it up again. There were as good as three corpses laid out
upon the lawn, with a doctor attending upon each and two policemen; and
one of them also had a magistrate.
Uncle Corny drew me forward, as I shrank behind the bay-tree, where
Kitty had been with me, when the great snow began. “You are only fit
for a turtle-dove. Where is your gall?” he whispered.
It may have been a very low default on my part. But when my worst enemy
lies on the ground, I would rather lift him up, than walk over him. My
uncle was of sterner stuff, or less live softness—for his injury had
been more deadly. He tried to drag me forward; but I would not budge,
though I might make a beggar of myself by that refusal.
“Are you afraid to look at death, you white-livered young fool?” he
whispered, and his face was black with the pitch of fury.
“I have been through ten times worse than death,” I answered, looking
at him steadfastly; “and the lesson I have learned is mercy.”
Before he could answer, with the bitterness of justice, which to him
was greater, two young women ran across the grass, and they both caught
hold of me and shrieked. I could not make out what they said, because
it was mixed up with sobs, and they cried both together; but I left
myself to them, and they drew me on to the place where their mother lay
stretched upon the walk, with a medical man bending over her.
“Dr. Wiggins?” he asked; and I answered, “No, not a doctor at all.”
And he said, “Clear out; I shall take the four ounces on my own
responsibility.”
“A friend of the family. A true friend of the family,” Miss Jerry
exclaimed, to my great surprise; but he answered—“Then let him get out
of the way; and the sooner you go away too, the better.”
The sour-faced woman, a faithful retainer, was supporting the poor
lady’s head on a cushion; and I scarcely allowed myself a glance at the
proud face, now so deathly. But that one glance told me for ever what
all human pride must come to.
“Oh, come and see Downy! He can’t be dead too. Oh, come, and forgive
him before he is dead.”
Which of the girls said this I know not. But I took up my hat, which I
had thrown on the grass, and followed them to their brother.
There lay the man who had robbed me of my wife, the cold-blooded,
godless miscreant, robbed by his own hand for ever of all hope of due
repentance. Within a few yards of him lay his poor father, dead as a
stone, and cold as ice, slain by the wickedness he had begotten, shot
through the heart by his heartless son.
Donovan Bulwrag looked at me. He was sensible still; though before the
waning light upon his ghastly face should vanish, light and darkness
would be one to him. He knew me, and I am grieved to say, for his own
poor sake, that he hated me still. He had not heard of Kitty’s return,
I suppose, having been so absorbed in his own affairs, and he muttered
through the red foam that streaked his lying lips—for he had fired the
ball through the roof of his mouth—
“How like—darling Kitty—run away—with officer?”
“She is with me. Her father found out your tricks, and sent her home.
She is well and very happy. She ran away with no officer.”
“Let him alone, sir; don’t excite him,” said the surgeon who was
stooping over him. “I must have you removed if you come near him.”
Then with another turn of thought he said,—“If there has been ill-will
between you, make it up; he cannot last half an hour. Will you take his
hand if he wishes it?”
“With pleasure; but I know that he does not wish it. Do you wish me to
take your hand, Mr. Bulwrag? If you do, look at me, and nod your head.”
To my amazement, the dying man turned his eyes on me, and nodded his
head. His eyes were clouded with the approach of death, and I saw very
little expression in them. Then he moved his left hand feebly towards
me, while the other dropped, as if through exhaustion, to the ground.
My right hand lay in his clammy palm, and bending forward, I watched
his face for some token of good will and penitence.
Suddenly a red glare as of lightning filled his eyes, his features
worked horribly, and his great teeth clashed as he tried to jerk me
towards him. Luckily for me I was poised upon both feet. At the flash
of his eyes I sprang aside, a redder flash blinded me, and a roar rang
in my ears, and upon the bosom of the dying man lay the short thick
curl, the love-lock Kitty was so fond of playing with. The ball had
passed within an inch of my temple, and my forehead was black with the
pistol-smoke.
“Narrow shave,” said the doctor, “that will be his last act. I hope he
will have life enough to know that it has failed. I had not the least
idea he had got that revolver under his coat-flap. What are the police
about? It’s not my place to see to a thing of that sort. And he might
have shot me while he was about it! There he goes! I thought so. Serve
him right.”
The great head fell back, and the square chin dropped, a dull glaze
spread upon the upturned eyes, a wan gray haze as of icy vapour crept
across the relaxing face, and Donovan Bulwrag was gone to render an
account of his doings in the flesh.
Mrs. Wilcox ran up with a sob, and fetched the heavy eyelids downward.
“Poor young man! He have run his course. I hope he has gone to heaven,”
she said.
But my Uncle Corny looked at me, and at the fallen pistol. “I wish him
only his due,” he said; “and I hope he has gone to the Devil.”