MRS. WILLIAMS’S MANŒUVRE TO GET RID OF ANDERSON.
This exclamation from Caleb informed Mrs. Williams of the fact of his
presence; and duly indignant was she at that circumstance; for, in her
anger, she immediately rose to execute upon him some vengeance; and,
had he not adroitly eluded her, by leaving the room, there is no doubt
she would have well made him remember indulging in such a piece of
impertinent curiosity.
“That wretch,” she exclaimed, “has overheard me; and who knows, now,
that he may actually go and tell the other. If he would betray him, he
would betray me; and what redress should I get for such a circumstance?”
This was a mental suggestion which made it necessary Mrs. Williams
should not only look over the fact of Caleb having stayed to listen to
the letter, but likewise see him, and hold out some other inducements
to him to be faithful to her, however he might chose to behave himself
to other persons.
“Caleb,” she said, when she had summoned him again into her presence;
“Caleb, you may depend I will make it well worth your while to attend
to me in this affair, and to no one else. I can, and will, pay you
well; and, when the baron marries Miss Helen, I dare say, if you would
like it, I should be able to get you some great place at Anderbury
House.”
“Well, missus,” said Caleb, “I looks upon myself as put up to auction,
and the highest bidder always has me. I don’t mean to say but what you
have done the right thing, as regards the sixteen shillings; so what
would you like me to do next, missus?”
“I want you to take a note back, in answer to that which you have
brought me; but, of course, the young man who gave it must suppose that
it came from my daughter Helen.”
“How much?”
“What do you mean by how much?”
“How much am I to get, I mean.”
“Oh, I understand you. How much do you expect for such a piece of
service?”
“Something handsome, I should say. What do you think of ten shillings
and sixpence, missus?”
“I think it rather high, Caleb; but, nevertheless, I shall not stop at
a trifle in rewarding you, provided always I may depend upon you.”
“Money down,” said Caleb; “you know, short reckonings make long
friends, missus; besides, it’s always better not to let these things
accumulate; for, if we goes on doing business in this here sort of way,
it would come to a good bit in a short time, and then you would think
it was too much, and wouldn’t like to pay it.”
With a bad grace—for Mrs. Williams never liked parting with her
money—she produced the sum which Caleb required for this new service,
remarking, as she did,—
“Well, Caleb, you will soon grow rich, if you go on this way.”
“Likely enough, ma’am,” said Caleb; “I likes to be paid, and I don’t
see why I shouldn’t.”
Mrs. Williams soon handed him the note, which merely contained the
words,
“Come at eight o’clock, and ring the door bell.”
These words she wrote as much as possible in her daughter Helen’s hand,
and, having sealed up this extremely laconic epistle, she handed it to
Caleb, directing him to go at once and deliver it to the party who was
expecting him, and we must say, that this lad appeared to be one of the
most thoroughly selfish rascals the world had ever produced, for he was
now quite willing for money to betray Mrs. Williams to James Anderson,
if there was any likelihood of his accomplishing such a purpose with
safety.
But here some difficulties presented themselves, which Caleb’s natural
acuteness enabled him very well to see. In the first place, James
Anderson, he shrewdly suspected, was not the sort of individual to be
trafficked with, as Mrs. Williams was, and, considering that he had
already committed an immense breach of trust, in giving the letter to
Mrs. Williams, instead of to Helen, he thought, and, we are inclined to
think, correctly enough, that it would be rather a hazardous thing to
say anything to him about it.
“No, no,” he said; “I’ll just give him missus’s letter, and then back
out of the whole affair, for I don’t half begin to like it. That young
fellow looks a chap that wouldn’t mind wringing one’s neck for one—for
half a pin; so I’ll just leave him alone, and say nothing more about
it.”
James Anderson waited round the corner with considerable impatience,
for, in consequence of the proceedings that had taken place at Mrs.
Williams’s, Caleb had been considerably delayed.
When, however, he saw him coming, hope again sprung up in his bosom,
and he felt all the agitation of extreme pleasure, as he saw that Caleb
had in his hand what was undoubtedly a letter.
When the boy reached him, he advanced to meet him, eagerly exclaiming,
as he did so,—
“You have the letter—you have seen her, and you have her answer?”
Now, as Caleb had made up his mind to commit himself but as little as
he possibly could with the young stranger, he went upon the good old
adage of the least said being the soonest mended, and, accordingly,
instead of making any remark which might, at a future occasion, be
thrown at his teeth, he satisfied himself by placing his finger by the
side of his nose and nodding his head sagaciously.
He then handed to James Anderson the letter, in the contents of which
that individual became too much absorbed, short as they were, to pay
any further attention to the messenger.
Caleb thought this a good opportunity of being off at once, before any
troublesome questions should be asked him, so he made a retreat, with
all the expedition that was in his power.
James Anderson, when he looked up from the perusal of the one sentence
which the letter contained, was astonished to find his messenger gone,
considering how very eager he had before been on the subject of the
reward which he was to get for that service.
“What can have become of the boy?” he said; “I had a hundred questions
to ask him.”
So well had Mrs. Williams succeeded in imitating the handwriting of her
daughter Helen, that James Anderson was fully convinced the letter was
written by the chosen object of his heart.
He certainly did think that it was cold and distant, and that there
might have been a word or two of affection, at all events, in it,
especially considering how long he had been absent, and with what an
untiring affection he had ever thought of her.
“She might have told me that her heart was the same,” he murmured to
himself, “or else she should have let me known at once that it was so
altered I should not know it for the same. But still it is something to
look forward to an interview with her. She may not have had the time
to write more, or, perhaps, she may have doubted the messenger, and
thought it unsafe to utter anything concerning her real feelings in
this epistle.”
Thus hoping, and trying to persuade himself of the best, did James
Anderson anxiously expect the hour when, by the note that had been
sent him, he expected once again to look upon the face of her, the
remembrance of whom had cheered him in many a solitary hour, and
enabled him to bear up against evils and misfortunes which otherwise
had been insurmountable.
It wanted but a very short time to eight o’clock, and, at five minutes
before that hour, James Anderson walked, with trembling eagerness, up
the steps of Mrs. Williams’s house door. His hand shook, as he placed
it upon the bell-handle, and told himself that the time was come when
all his doubts would be resolved, and he should really know what he had
to hope, or expect, or to fear.
There was certainly a something weighing heavily upon his heart, an
undefined dread that all was not well, and, during the interval between
his ringing and the opening of the door, he felt all that sickening
sensation which is ever the accompaniment of intense anxiety, and which
renders it so fearfully painful a feeling.
The door was opened by a female servant, who had received her
instructions from Mrs. Williams, so that she knew exactly what to say,
and, without waiting for the visitor to announce himself, she said,
“Are you Mr. Anderson, sir?”
“Yes—yes,” he said.
“Then I am ordered to ask you to step into the back parlour.”
“All is right,” thought James Anderson; “she expects me, and has
prepared for my reception.”
He followed his guide implicitly, for he fully believed, as who would
not, under the circumstances, that she was in Helen’s confidence, and
so could be safely trusted.
She led him into the back parlour, where there was no one, and then she
said,—
“If you will be seated for a few minutes, sir, my mistress will come to
you.”
“Her young mistress, she means,” thought James; and he prepared himself
to wait, with what patience he could assume, and that, under the
circumstances, was by no means a large amount; for he had been kept in
such a constant worry by what had occurred, that suspense became one of
the most agonizing feelings that he could possibly endure, now that his
fate was about so nearly to be decided.
It was no part of Mrs. Williams’s plan to keep him waiting, for she
certainly had no fancy for retaining such a customer in the house as
James Anderson; for, playing the double part that she was, she knew not
what sudden accident might happen to derange her plans, and, probably,
render them completely abortive.
For all she could tell, Helen herself might actually descend the
stairs, and enter that very room where she hoped a short conference
would suffice to get rid of the troublesome claims of James Anderson
for ever.
She was in the front parlour when he was shown into the back, for they
communicated by folding doors. She had but to open these doors, and at
once show herself to the astonished Anderson, who little expected on
that occasion to behold the mother instead of the daughter.
He gave a sudden and violent start of surprise; but, as Mrs. Williams
had determined to do the dignified, and to call herself quite an
injured person, she took no notice of the evident agitation of his
manner, but said, with an assurance that only she could have aspired
to,—
“May I ask, sir, under what pretence you write notes to my daughter, at
such a time as this?—notes which appear to me to be highly calculated
to do her some serious injury, and, consequently, which I cannot but
think are intended for that precise purpose.”
“Mrs. Williams,” said James Anderson, “since it appears that I have
been betrayed, and that the messenger I perhaps foolishly trusted, has
delivered to you, instead of your daughter, the note I addressed to
her, I have only to say ——”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mrs. Williams, interrupting him; “but as
it was from my daughter I received your note, you may spare yourself
the trouble of blaming the lad whom you had to seduce from his duty by
bribes and corruption.”
“From your daughter?”
“Yes, sir; from my daughter; and I flatter myself that there is too
good an understanding between my daughter and me, for her to keep as a
secret such a circumstance.”
This was a very unexpected blow to James Anderson—a blow, indeed, which
he was totally unprepared for; and yet, although he doubted, he had no
means of disproving what Mrs. Williams chose to assert in the matter;
and she quickly saw the victory she had gained over him, and the
difficulty in which he found himself.
“Sir,” she said, “if you have anything more to add to what you have
already said, my daughter desires that you should inform me of it, and
if it consists of such matter as she can properly take notice of, she
will reply to it by letter; but she most unhesitatingly declines an
interview, which she considers cannot be productive of anything but
unpleasantness to all parties, and most of all to her, considering
her peculiar situation, and that she is so soon about to alter her
condition, and become the wife of the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh.”
“I’ll not believe it,” said James Anderson, “unless I hear it from her
own lips.”
“I suppose, sir, when you see it announced in the ‘County Chronicle,’
you will believe it?”
“That,” said James Anderson, “it never will be; for I cannot, will not,
dare not think that one whom I have loved so well could be so false.”
“False, sir! What do you mean by that? I shall really have to speak to
the baron, if you use such expressions towards his intended wife.”
“I’ll speak to the baron,” said James, “and that in a language he shall
understand, too, if I come across him.”
“If you threaten, it will be my duty to inform the baron, so that he
may take such legal steps as he may be advised.”
“I repeat to you, Mrs. Williams, that I will not believe it; and since
you force me to such a declaration, I have no hesitation in saying
that I think you are quite capable of selling your daughter to the
highest bidder, and that the baron you mention probably occupies that
unenviable position—a position which no gentleman would, for a moment,
wish to occupy, and which he perhaps is not fully aware of. I will see
him, and explain to him that there are prior claims to the hand as well
as to the affections of your daughter.”
This threat rather alarmed Mrs. Williams; for she thought it possible
that, if the baron really found there had been a former lover in the
case, probably much encouraged by the lady, he might think his chances
of happiness rather slender, and decline keeping the engagement which
she considered was so auspiciously commenced.
This might or might not be the result; but at all events it was worth
consideration, and placed the matter in rather a serious light.
Therefore was it, then, that Mrs. Williams determined to have recourse
to her last expedient, and that was the production of the written
promise to marry the baron, which it will be recollected, in the
excitement and impulse of the moment, she had succeeded in procuring
from Helen.
“Well, sir,” she said, “since you will not be convinced by any ordinary
arguments, and since you doubt my word in this matter, I shall be under
the necessity of adopting some means of explaining to you the matter
fully, and of showing you that there is abundance of proof of what I
have asserted.”
“Proof, madam! Nothing but an assurance from Helen herself can come to
me in the character of proof in such an affair as this. Let me see her;
for the mere fact that you sedulously keep her from me, involves the
affair in a general aspect of suspicion.”
“Read that, sir, and if you know anything of the handwriting of her
whom you affect so much to admire, it ought to resolve your doubts.”
James Anderson took the paper in his hand, and glanced upon it, and by
the sudden change that came across his countenance as he did so, Mrs.
Williams saw that it was having all its effect.
He could not doubt it. He knew that signature too well. He had it to
some affectionate documents, which he felt would remain by him to the
latest day of his existence.
It was indeed a horrible confirmation of all that had been told
him—such a confirmation as he had never expected to see, and which, at
one blow, dashed all doubt to the ground.
“Now, sir,” said Mrs. Williams, with a triumphant air, “I trust that
you are satisfied—at all events, of one fact, and that is, that my
daughter had consented to become the Baroness Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh;
and without at all entering into the question of anything which may
have passed between you and her upon other occasions, I think you
ought, as a gentleman, to perceive that the sooner you go away the
better.”
“It is enough,” said James Anderson. “Falsehood, thy name is woman.”
“I really can’t see, sir, what you have got to complain of, for people
have a right to alter their minds upon the little affairs of life, and
I don’t see, then, wherefore they should not have a similar privilege
as regards things of more importance.”
“Enough, madam—enough. What steps I may hereafter take, upon a due
consideration of these affairs, I know not; but now I bid you farewell.”
Mrs. Williams was very glad to hear these words, or rather the last
of them, because she was in perpetual dread, during the whole of the
interview, that something would occur by which a meeting would take
place between James Anderson and Helen herself, at which some very
disagreeable explanation might take place.
It was a wonderful relief to her when he had left the house, and she
heard the street-door close behind him, and she drew a long breath when
such was the case, as she said to herself,—
“Well, thank the fates, that job is over, and a good thing it is. There
is no knowing what mischief might have been the end of it, if it hadn’t
been stopped as it has. He is not a bad-looking young man, and if he
had had a few thousands a year, I certainly should not have made any
objections to his being my son-in-law; but I possibly cannot, and will
not, have poor people in the family. There is no end of trouble and
bother with them; and instead of getting your daughters off hand, it’s
just taking on hand, in addition, some man for their amusement.”
James Anderson went sorrowfully enough back to the fisherman’s cottage,
where he related to the sympathising old seaman what had occurred; for
Jack Pringle was not there, and if he had been, James Anderson knew
very well he would have got no sympathy from him on account of the
circumstance; for the frailties of the softer sex did not seem to have
any material effect upon Jack Pringle or his sympathies, since, by his
own account, he had been jilted so often, that he now thought nothing
at all of it.