WHAT RUPERT HAD DONE.
Mrs. Werner had returned to Dassell carrying with her that legacy, the
disposal of which was still as great a perplexity and trouble as ever.
The hawthorn-trees were in full bloom, the dog-roses showing for
blossom, the woods resonant with the songs of birds, and Dolly sat one
day out in the sweet sunshine all alone.
She had wandered slowly through the woods to a spot where, the trees
ceasing to impede the view, she could see far away over the luxuriant
champaign through which the Lea wound its devious way, glittering in the
distance like a thread of silver.
There she sat down to rest on a felled tree, and the beauty of the
landscape stole into her heart, and with it a feeling of infinite peace.
For the moment life and its cares, past troubles, the fear of sorrow
coming to those dear to her in the future, dropped from off her spirit;
as for a few minutes a heavy burden, that must be taken up again, may be
cast aside. She felt better than she had done for months previously, and
at once her buoyant nature grasped at the hope that perhaps her disease
was stayed, that she might live a few years longer to see her husband
again free, without that shadow of bankruptcy and unpaid debt pursuing
him.
His discharge was the one earthly good Dolly still desired with an
exceeding longing; and under that bright clear sky, with that sweet
peaceful country stretching out before her eyes, even so wild a dream as
freedom for the man she loved and pitied with a love and pity exceeding
that of a wife seemed not incapable of fulfilment.
Along the path which, cutting first across the fields and then through
the wood, led straight as a crow's flight from the nearest railway
station to the high-road, which their little cottage overlooked, she saw
a man advancing towards the spot she occupied.
Not a young man, not a labouring man, not any person resident in the
neighbourhood, but a stranger, evidently, for he often paused and looked
around, as if doubtful of being in the right way, and when he had got a
little distance into the wood he stopped and hesitated, and then
retracing his steps, took off his hat, and asked Dolly if she could
kindly direct him to
"Mortomley's Colour Works?"
She gave him the information, and then added,
"If you want to see Mr. Mortomley, he is not at home to-day."
"That is very unfortunate," remarked the stranger.
"Is your business with him very important?" she asked, a fear born of
the experiences of that time she could never recall without a shudder
prompting the question, "I am Mrs. Mortomley," she explained with a
nervous laugh and a vivid blush. "Perhaps you could tell me what it is
you want; and that might save you trouble and spare him."
He did not quite understand what she meant by her last expression. How
could he tell that now, as in that far away time when Mortomley had been
ruined, her first thought, her sole desire was to spare him, the man
over whom a sorrow impended, the coming of which she could not retard?
"You are very kind," said the gentleman courteously; "but I could not
think of troubling you about the matter. I must see Mr. Mortomley,
however, and if you name a time when he is likely to be at home, I will
call."
She felt certain, now, that something dreadful was about to happen.
"I wish," she said, rising; "I do wish you would give me some idea of
the nature of your business. I am not very strong, and I cannot bear
anxiety as I used to be able to do; and if you will not tell me why you
want to see my husband, I shall be imagining all sorts of evil. I beg
your pardon for speaking so vehemently," she added, seeing a look of
amazement in the stranger's face; "but you do not know what we have gone
through."
Looking at her more closely he could form some idea.
"Pray sit down," he entreated. "I am so sorry to have alarmed you. Why
you are trembling as if you thought I meant to do your husband some
great injury, and I only want to speak to him about a colour I
understand he manufactures!"
"What--his new blue?" asked Dolly, brightening up in a moment.
"No; his new yellow," was the reply.
It would have been impossible for any one to avoid being amused at the
sudden change in Mrs. Mortomley's expression, and almost in spite of
himself the stranger smiled as he answered.
Dolly's face reflected that smile, and as he saw the sunshine in her
eyes uplifted to his, the stranger, though he had come on no friendly
errand to Mortomley, felt himself drawn by an irresistible attraction,
to be friends with Mortomley's wife.
"Won't you be seated?" she asked. If he had been young and handsome as
he was old and plain, Dolly would, without thought of evil, have issued
a precisely similar invitation, and the stranger smiled again as he
availed himself of it. And seeing that, Dolly smiled once more while she
asked him what he wanted to say to her husband about the new yellow.
"I wanted to know, in the first instance, if he really manufactured it,"
was the reply.
"Oh! yes; quantities," she answered. "He could sell fifty times as much
if he had a larger place to make it in. Do you want some?"
"No," said the stranger; "I do not."
Now this puzzled Mrs. Mortomley, and so she tried back.
"What did you want to know in the second instance?" she asked.
"Really, Mrs. Mortomley," he was beginning, when she interrupted him.
"It is of no use your trying to deceive me; you have got something
unpleasant to say to my husband--what is it?"
"Well, the fact is, he has no right to be making that yellow."
"He has every right," she retorted, "for he invented it; and if you come
from Mr. Swanland, you can tell him that I say Mr. Mortomley will
manufacture any colour he pleases."
It was a privilege accorded to few people, but the new-comer certainly
had the benefit of seeing Dolly in all the moods of which her nature was
capable in a single interview.
"I do not come from Mr. Swanland," was the reply; "indeed, I do not know
who Mr. Swanland is. That is my name," and he handed her his card; "and
the reason why I say Mr. Mortomley has no right to make that yellow is
because he sold his secret to me."
Dolly looked at the speaker as a tigress might have done had he touched
her cub. She got first red with passion, and then that red turned to a
white heat, and her heart seemed to stand still with rage, then suddenly
it gave a great bound of relief, and she said to that elderly gentleman
quite solemnly, and yet with a certain cheerful assurance in her tone,--
"You are mad!"
"Indeed I am not," was the reply. "I hold a receipt for the money I paid
for your husband's secret, and I think I have just cause for complaint
when I find the formulae given to me imperfect, and Mr. Mortomley sending
a colour into the market which according to equity is mine exclusively."
"Show me the receipt you speak of," she said. "There is some great
mistake--you are labouring under some gross delusion."
For answer he opened his pocket-book and handed her a paper, which
proved to be a receipt for two hundred and fifty pounds paid by Charles
Douglas, Esquire, for the formulae of a new yellow.
This document was signed
"For Archibald Mortomley,
"R. HALLING."
and in a moment Dolly understood what had been done.
"The viper!" she said; "and he knew we were beggars when he robbed us of
the money. And we had sheltered him and his sister and--"
"For mercy's sake calm yourself, Mrs. Mortomley," entreated Mr. Douglas,
as she broke into a perfect agony of grief. "I would not for all the
value of the money, I would not even for the worth of the colour, have
so distressed you. I will destroy the receipt and never mention the
affair again if you will only promise not to fret yourself about the
matter."
"You will not destroy that receipt," she said, rising. "You shall come
home with me and hear how my husband has been cheated, just as you have
been cheated."
In utter silence they walked together through the wood to the little
cottage which was Mortomley's home, at sight of which Mr. Douglas
experienced an amazement impossible to describe.
On the threshold Mr. Mortomley, who had returned unexpectedly, met his
wife and her companion.
"Dolly," he said, "where have you been? what is the matter?"
"This gentleman, Mr. Douglas, will tell you," she answered. "He wants to
speak to you about the new yellow."
"Yes, I came to have a talk with you on that subject, and unfortunately
I met with Mrs. Mortomley on my way here; unfortunately for her, I mean,
for I am afraid I have, most unintentionally, caused her great distress.
I dare say you know my name as a colour manufacturer, Mr. Mortomley. I
have long known yours, and I am very happy to make your acquaintance."
And so saying he held out his hand, and thus this man--good, generous,
and rich--this man so wealthy that he could at the time of Mortomley's
greatest prosperity have bought up everything he owned in the world,
and scarcely have missed the amount, came unexpectedly into the lives of
Dolly and her husband.
He had meant to curse, and behold he remained to bless altogether.
From the moment his eyes fell on Mortomley, he "took to him," as the
homely phrase expresses that fancy at first sight some men experience
for each other, and some women too; and when from Dolly, at a subsequent
period, he heard the particulars of that story I have tried in these
pages to tell, his heart sank when he contrasted all he might and would
have done for husband and wife with all he might ever do now, when it
was too late to do much for one of them, at all events.
Fain would Mortomley with his wide charity, which, as Dolly declared,
amounted in some cases to weakness, have excused and softened Rupert's
perfidy; but Mr. Douglas said, and truly, that the offence was one which
admitted of no gentle shading--which was beyond excuse, "though," he
added with a kindly smile at Mortomley's troubled face, "I see, not
beyond your powers of forgiveness."
"I think forgiveness of injuries an entire mistake," said Dolly from the
depths of her arm-chair.
"If so it is a divine one," remarked Mr. Douglas. And then Mrs.
Mortomley understood their visitor, who by that time had become their
guest,--for all this conversation took place after dinner--and the
sister, of whom he had spoken more than once, were what she called, and
often herself wished to be, "good."
Nevertheless, she said subsequently to her husband, "I shall tell Rupert
what I think of his conduct the very first time I see him. You may
forgive if you like, but I will reprove; it only encourages people to be
wicked to be tender with their faults, and I do not mean to be tender
with him."
But when the time came she was not very hard; she said to him as they
stood at the gate of the cottage together, the last time he ever saw her
alive, "Rupert, I want you to know we are not ignorant of how, when we
were so poor, you sold Archie's secret to Mr. Douglas. Now, there are
some things I can understand; I can under pressure imagine Lazarus
robbing Dives, and a man in extremity forging and telling falsehoods to
save his credit, but I cannot understand the nature of the person who
shall steal twopence-halfpenny from the pocket of a blind old widow, or
who, when the man who befriended him is sick and incompetent, takes that
opportunity to rob him of the only possession left. You need not try to
defend yourself, Rupert, because your conduct is indefensible."
"I shall not try," he said huskily; "I was wrong."
"That is enough; do not vex yourself about the matter now," she
answered, "for, Rupert, unintentionally when you took Archie's ewe lamb,
you gave him that which will turn eventually into a great flock of
sheep."