MRS. STOTHARD.
Mrs. Powler and Mrs. Jupp were by no means the only persons in
Beachborough to whom Mrs. Stothard's position in the household at the
Tower afforded subject-matter for gossip. It may be safely asserted
that there never was a tea-drinking, followed--as was usually the
case among the better classes in that hospitable neighbourhood--by
a consumption of alcohol "hot with," at which Mrs. Stothard was not
served up as a toothsome morsel, and forthwith torn into shreds, if
not by the teeth, at least by the tongues of the assembled company. To
those simple minds, all social standing was fixed and unalterable--one
must either be mistress or servant; the lines of demarcation were
strongly defined; they knew of no softening gradations; and they could
not understand Mrs. Stothard. "She hev' her dinner by herself, and
her own teapot allays brought to her own room--leastways, 'cept when
she do fetch it herself, Miss Annette bein' sleepy or out of sorts,
and not likin' to be disturbed by the servants." Such was the report
which Nancy Wickstead, who had gone to live as nursemaid up at the
Tower soon after the arrival of the family, brought down about this
redoubtable woman. The villagers only knew her by report, by crumbs
and fragments of rumours dropped by Nancy Wickstead when she came down
among her old familiars for an "evening out," or by the tradesmen who
called at the house, and who drew largely on their own imagination for
the stories which they told. They had only caught fleeting glimpses of
Mrs. Stothard as she passed along the corridor or crossed from room to
room, but even those cursory glances entitled them to swagger before
their fellow-villagers who had never seen her at all--never. Many of
them tried to think they had, and after renewed descriptions of her
firmly believed that they had; but it was all an exercitation of their
imagination, for they never went to the Tower, and Mrs. Stothard never
left it--never, under any pretence. In the two years during which the
family had resided at the Tower, Mrs. Stothard had never passed through
the entrance-gate. She took exercise sometimes in the grounds; even
that but rarely; but she never left them. Young Dobbs, the grocer,
a bright spirit, once took it into his head to chaff about her with
the servants, to ask who was the "female hermit," and what duties she
performed in the house; a flight of fancy not very humorous in itself,
and unfortunate in its result. The next day Mrs. Derinzy called on
Dobbs senior, asked him for his bill, paid it, and removed the family
custom to Sandwith of Bedminster.
Once seen, a woman not easily to be forgotten, from her physical
appearance. About eight-and-forty years of age, tall and very strongly
built, with broad shoulders and big wrists, knuckles both of wrists
and hands very prominent, great frontal development, but low forehead,
a penthouse for deep-set gray eyes. Light hair, thin, dull, and
colourless; thin and colourless cheeks; thin lips, closing tightly over
rows of small, gleaming dog's-teeth; big, square, massive jaw; cold,
taciturn, and watchful, with eyes and ears of wonderful quickness, wits
always ready, hands always active and strong. She came to Mrs. Derinzy
on Dr. Wainwright's recommendation as "exactly the person to suit her,"
and she fulfilled her mission most exactly. What that mission was we
shall learn; what her previous career had been we will state.
She was the only daughter of one Robert Hall, a verger of Canterbury
Cathedral, a clever, drunken dog, whose vergership was in constant
peril, but who contrived to hoodwink the cathedral dignitaries as a
general rule, and who on special occasions of outbreak invariably
found some influential friend to plead his cause. He was a bookbinder
as well as a verger, and in his trade showed not merely skilful
manipulation, but rare taste, taste which was apparently inherited
by his daughter Martha, who, at seventeen years of age, had produced
some illuminated work which was pronounced by the _cognoscenti_ in
such matters to be very superior indeed. The cathedral dignitaries
patronised Martha Hall's illuminations, and displayed them in their
drawing-rooms at those pleasant evening gatherings, so decorous and so
dull, and where the bearers of the sword mingle with the wearers of the
gown, yawn away a couple of hours in looking over photograph-albums
and listening to sonatas, and after a sandwich and a glass of sherry,
lounge away to begin the night with devilled biscuits, billiards,
and brandy-and-soda-water. The military, to whom these illuminations
were thus introduced, thought it would be the "correct thing" to buy
some of them; they would look "deuced well" in their rooms; so that
the front parlour of the verger's little house in the precincts was
speedily re-echoing to clanking sabres and jingling spurs, the owners
of which were none the less ready to come again because the originator
and vendor of the wares was a "doosid nice girl, don't you know?--not
exactly pretty, but something doosid nice about her!" Martha Hall's
handiwork was seen everywhere in barracks, and "many a holy text
around she strewed," and had them hung up in subalterns' rooms between
portraits of Mdlle. Joliejambe and the Blisworth Bruiser.
The sabres clanked so often and the spurs jingled so much in the
verger's front parlour, that the neighbours--instigated, perhaps,
less by their friendly feelings and their virtue than their
jealousy--thought it time to speak to Robert Hall about it, and to ask
him if he knew what he was doing, and what seed he was sowing, to be
reaped in shame and disgrace. Wybrow, the mourning jeweller--who made
very tasty little designs of yews and willows out of dead people's
hair--declared that his shop was never so full as his neighbour's; but
then either the officers had no dead relations, or did not care for
such melancholy _souvenirs_. Heelball, who had compiled a neat little
handbook of the cathedral, and who furnished anyone who wanted them
with "rubbings" of the crusaders' tombs, declared that the "milingtary"
never patronised him; "perhaps," he added, "because I ain't young
and pretty," therein decidedly speaking the truth, as he was sixty
and deformed. Stothard, the tombstone sculptor, said nothing. He was
supposed to be madly in love with Martha Hall, and it was noticed
that when the young officers went clanking by his yard he took up his
heaviest mallet and punished the stone under treatment fearfully. The
hints and remonstrances had but little effect on Robert Hall. Not that
he was careless about his daughter. "Happy-go-lucky" in other matters,
he would have resented deeply any slight or insult offered to her. But
he knew her better than anyone else, knew her passionless, calculating,
ambitious nature, and had every confidence in it.
That confidence was not misplaced. Martha was polite to all who visited
her as customers; talked and joked with them within bounds, displayed
her handiwork, and sold it to the best advantage; taking care always to
have ready money before she parted with it ("Can't think how she does
it, 'pon my soul I can't!" was the cry in barracks. "Screwed two quid
out of me for this d--d thing, down on the nail, by Jove! First thing
I've had in the place that hasn't been chalked up, give you my word!")
but never allowed any approach to undue familiarity. She was declared
by her military customers to be "capital fun;" but it was perfectly
understood amongst them that she "wouldn't stand any nonsense." So the
shop was filled, and her trade throve, and her enemies and neighbours,
however much they might hint and whisper in her detraction, had nothing
tangible to narrate against her.
While Martha Hall's popularity was at its fullest height, there
came to the depot of the hussar regiment--to which he had just been
gazetted as cornet--a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance,
pleasant manners, good position, and apparently plenty of money. He
was well received by his brother officers, and after being introduced
to the various delights which Canterbury affords, he was in due course
taken to Martha Hall's shop, and presented to the young lady therein
presiding. It was evident to his companions that the susceptibilities
of their new comrade were very keenly aroused at the sight of Miss
Hall; and it was no less palpable to Miss Hall herself. She laughingly
told her father that night that she had made a fresh conquest; and her
father grinned, advised her to set to work on some new texts, with
which she could "stick" the new-comer, and repeated his never-failing
assertion of thorough confidence in her.
The new-comer, whose name was Derinzy, quickly showed that he was not
merely influenced by first impressions. He visited the shop constantly,
he bought all the illuminations that Martha Hall could produce; and
within a very short time he not merely fell violently in love with
her, but told her so; and told her that if she would accept him, he
would go to her father, and propose to marry her. To such a suggestion
from any other of the score of officers in the habit of frequenting
the shop, Martha Hall would have replied by a laugh, or, had it been
pressed, by a declaration that she was flattered by the compliment,
but that she knew the difference between their stations in life was
an insuperable barrier, &c. But she said nothing of this kind to
Alexis Derinzy. Why? Because she was in love with him. Perhaps her
natural keenness of perception had enabled her to judge between the
"spooniness" springing from a desire to bridge-over _ennui_, and to
fill up the wearisome hours of a garrison life, which prompted the
advances of her other admirers, and the unmistakable passion which
this boy betrayed. Perhaps she admired his fair, picturesque face, and
well-cut features, and slight form in contradistinction to the more
robust and athletic proportions of the other youth then resident in
barracks. Perhaps the rumours of the wealth of the Derinzys had reached
those calm cloisters, and Martha might have thought that the fact that
they were themselves in trade might induce them to overlook what to the
scion of any noble house would be an undoubted _mésalliance_. No one
knew, for Martha, reticent in everything, was scarcely likely to gossip
of her love-affairs; but the fact remained the same, and she loved him.
She told him as much, at the same moment that she suggested that the
consideration of the marriage question should be deferred for a few
months, until he was of age. Mr. Derinzy agreed to this, as he would
have agreed to anything his heart's charmer proposed, but stipulated
that Martha should consider herself as engaged to him, and that the
flirtations with "the other fellows" should be at once discontinued.
Martha consented, and acted up both to the spirit and the letter of the
agreement; but flirtation with Martha Hall had become such a habit with
the officers quartered at Canterbury that it could not be given up all
of a sudden; no matter how little the maiden might respond, the gallant
youths still frequented the shop, and still paid their court in their
usual clumsy but unmistakably marked manner. Alexis Derinzy, worried at
this, and also feeling it uncommonly hard that he should not be able to
boast of having secured the heart and the proximate chance of the hand
of the most sought-after girl in Canterbury, mentioned his engagement,
in the strictest confidence, to three or four of his brother officers,
who, under the same seal, mentioned it to three or four more. Thus it
happened that in a few days the story came to the ears of the adjutant
of the depôt, who was a great friend of the Derinzy family, and at
whose instigation it was that Alexis had been placed in the army.
Captain Branscombe was still a young man, but he had had ripe
experience of life, and he knew that it would be as truly useless,
under the circumstances, to reason with the love-stricken cornet, as
to make application anywhere but to the highest domestic authorities.
To these, therefore, he represented the state of affairs--the result
of his representation being that Mr. Paul Derinzy, the elder brother
of the cornet, came down to Canterbury by the coach the next day,
and straightway sought an interview with the Dean. Then Robert Hall
was summoned to the diaconal presence, out of which he came swearing
strange oaths, and looking very flushed and fierce. Later in the
afternoon he was waited upon at his own house in the precincts by Mr.
Paul Derinzy, who had a very stormy ten minutes with Martha, and then
made his way to the barracks. Mr. Paul Derinzy remained in Canterbury
for two days, during every hour of which, save those which he passed in
bed, he was actively employed. The results of the mission did credit
to his diplomatic talents. Alexis Derinzy sent in an application
for sick leave, which being promptly granted, he quitted Canterbury
without seeing Martha Hall, though he tried hard to do so; and did not
rejoin until the regiment, safely arrived from India, was quartered
at Hounslow. When Mr. Paul Derinzy was staying in Canterbury, it had
been noticed by the neighbours that he had called once or twice on
Stothard the stonemason, who has already been described as having
been madly in love with Martha Hall; and Stothard had returned the
visit at Paul's hotel. In the course of a few weeks after the "London
gentleman's" departure, Stothard announced that he had inherited a
legacy of a couple of hundred pounds from an old aunt. No one had ever
heard any previous mention of this relative, nor did Stothard enter
into any particulars whatever; he did not go to her funeral, and the
only mourning he assumed was a crape band to his Sunday beaver. But
there was no mistake about the two hundred pounds; that sum was paid
in to his credit at the County Bank by their London agent, and he took
the pass-book up with him when he went to Robert Hall's to propose for
Martha. Folks said he was a fool for his pains; the kindest remarked
that she would never stoop to him; the unkindest expressed their
contempt for anybody as could take anybody else's leaving. But despite
of both, Martha Hall accepted Stothard the stonemason, and they were
married.
You must not think that all this little drama had been enacted without
its due effect on one of the principal performers. You must not think
that Martha Hall had lost Alexis Derinzy without fierce heartburning
and deep regret, and intense hatred for those who robbed her of him.
She knew that it was not the boy's own fault, she guessed what kind
of pressure had been brought to bear upon him; but she thought he
ought to have made a better fight of it. She had loved him, and if
he had only been true to her and to their joint cause, they might
have been triumphant. In a few months he would have been of age, and
then he could have gone up and seen his mother--he was always her
favourite--and she would have persuaded his father, and all would have
been straight. He always said he hated his brother Paul--how, then,
had he suffered himself to be persuaded by him? Ah, other influences
must have been brought to bear by Paul Derinzy! Paul Derinzy--how she
hated him! She would register that name in her heart; and if ever she
came across his path, let him look to himself. When Stothard came
with his proposal, she made her acceptance of him conditional on his
leaving Canterbury. The money which he had inherited, and the little
sum which she had saved, would enable them to commence business afresh
somewhere else--say, in London; but she must leave Canterbury. She
could not stand the neighbours' looks and remarks, or, what was worse,
their pity, any longer. She must go, she said; she was sick of the
place. Robert Hall indorsed his daughter's desire; he was becoming
more and more confirmed in his selfishness, and wanted to be allowed
to drink himself to death without any ridiculous remonstrances.
Stothard agreed--he would have agreed to anything then--and they were
married; and Stothard bought a business in a London suburb, and for a
time--during which time a daughter was born to them--they flourished.
For a time only; then Stothard took to drinking, and late hours; his
hand lost its cunning; his customers dropped off one by one; the
garnered money had long since been spent, and things looked bad.
Stothard drank harder than before, had delirium tremens, and died. His
widow could not go back to her old home, for her father had carried
out his intention, and drank himself to death very soon after her
marriage; and she was too proud to made her appearance among her old
acquaintances under her adverse circumstances. As luck would have
it, the doctor who had attended her husband, and who had been much
struck by the manner in which she had nursed him in his delirium, was
physician to a great hospital. He proposed to Mrs. Stothard that she
should become a professional nurse, offering her his patronage and
recommendation. She agreed, and at once commenced practice in the
hospital; but she soon became famous among the physicians and surgeons,
and they were anxious to secure her for their private patients,
where her services would be well paid. In a few years she had gotten
together quite a large connection, and she was in constant demand. The
money which she received she applied to giving her daughter a good
education. They met but seldom, Mrs. Stothard being so much engaged;
but she perceived in her daughter early signs of worldly wisdom, and a
disposition to make use of her fellow-creatures, which gladdened her
mother's soured spirit. She should be no weak fool, as her mother had
been; she should not be made a puppet to be set up and knocked down at
a rich man's caprice; she was sharp, she promised to be pretty, and she
should be well-educated. Then, thoroughly warned as to what men were,
she should be placed in some good commercial position, and left to see
whether she could not contrive to make a rich and respectable marriage
for herself.
One day when Mrs. Stothard was at St. Vitus's Hospital, where she
was now regarded as a great personage, and where, when she paid an
occasional visit, she was taken into the stewards' room, and regaled
with the best port wine, Dr. Wainwright--who, though not attached to
St. Vitus's, had a very great reputation in London, and was considered
the leading man in his line--looked into the room. Seeing Mrs.
Stothard, he entered, told her he had come expressly, learning she was
there, and that he wanted to know if she would undertake a permanent
situation. He entered into detail as to the case, mentioned the
remuneration, which was very large, and stated that he knew no one who
would be so satisfactory in the position; and added: "Indeed, 'if we do
not get Mrs. Stothard, I don't know what we shall do,' were the last
words I uttered to Mrs. Derinzy."
Mrs. Stothard, albeit a calm and composed woman in general, literally
jumped. A quarter of a century rolled up like a mist, and she saw
herself selling illuminated scrolls in the little shop in the precincts
of Canterbury, and the slim, handsome little cornet leaning over the
counter, and devouring her with his bright black eyes.
"What name did you say, sir?" she asked when she recovered herself.
"Derinzy. Odd name, isn't it? De-rin-zy. The lady's husband is a
retired military man, and the family consists of themselves and the
young lady I was speaking of just now," said the doctor.
"Is she their daughter?" asked Mrs. Stothard.
"Oh no; they have no daughter, only a son, who lives in London.
This young lady is their niece, daughter of--why, God bless my
soul! you must have heard of him--Mr. Paul Derinzy, the merchant,
the millionaire, who died some time ago. Ah! I forgot, though;
millionaires--real ones, I mean--are not much in your line," added Dr.
Wainwright, with a laugh. "You see plenty who fancy that----"
"Oh, and so Mr. Paul Derinzy is dead," interrupted Mrs. Stothard;
"and this young lady is his daughter? I think, Dr. Wainwright, I must
decline the situation."
Decline the situation! Dr. Wainwright had never heard of such a thing,
never in the whole course of his professional experience. Decline
the situation! Had Mrs. Stothard understood him correctly about the
terms? Yes! And she talked of declining the situation after that! And
for a permanency, too. And he had thought it would have been exactly
the thing to suit her. Well, if she would not accept, she must not
decline--at once, that was to say. She must think over it; she must
indeed.
She did; and accepted it. Partly out of a desire for revenge. She had
a long, long pondering over the past; and all the bitterness of bygone
years had revived in her heart. She thought that something--luck she
called it (she was little given to ascribe things to Providence)--had
placed her enemies in her hands, and that she might use her power over
the man who had given her up, and over the daughter of the man who
had compelled him to do so. Partly for money. The salary proposed was
very large, and her daughter's education was expensive, and the girl
would soon have to be apprenticed to a house of business where a heavy
premium must be paid. So she accepted. There was no doubt about her
getting the place. Dr. Wainwright's recommendation was all-sufficient,
and Mrs. Derinzy was only too anxious to secure her services. Captain
Derinzy had forgotten all about Stothard the stonemason, and the two
hundred pounds which had been paid to him, even if he ever knew of
the transaction. He did not recognise the name, and for the first few
minutes after he saw her he did not recognise in the hard-featured,
cold, impassive, middle-aged woman his bright boyish love of so many
years before. When he did recognise her he started, and seemed as
though he would have spoken; but she made him a slight sign, and he
waited for an opportunity of their being alone. When that came, it
was Mrs. Stothard who spoke. She told him there was no necessity
for ever referring to the past, it was all forgotten by them both;
they would never be brought in contact; she knew the position she
held in his house, and she should fulfil it; it was better on all
accounts that Mrs. Derinzy should be kept in ignorance of their former
acquaintance--did he not think so? He did; and as he left her he
grinned quietly.
"What the doose did she think?" he said to himself. "Gad! not likely
that I should want to renew the acquaintance of an old horse-godmother
like that. What a pretty gal she was, too! and how changed! by George,
so that her own mother wouldn't know her! Wonder whether I'm as much
changed as all that? Often look in the glass and wonder. Different in a
man: he don't wear a cap, and that kind of thing; and my hair's lasted
wonderful, considerin'. Martha Hall, eh? and those dam things--text
things--that she used to paint in those colours--got some of 'em still,
I think, somewhere in my old bullock-trunk; saw 'em the other day.
Martha Hall!--Oh Lord!"
So Mrs. Stothard accepted office with the Derinzys, and was with them
when, shortly afterwards, they gave up the house at Brompton where they
had lived so long, and removed to Beachborough. The change affected
Mrs. Stothard but very little; it mattered scarcely at all to her
where she was, her time was very much employed in her duties, and
what little leisure she found she passed in reading, or in writing to
her daughter. She knew perfectly well that she was the subject of an
immense amount of curiosity in Beachborough village, and of talk at the
village tea-tables; but it did not trouble her one whit. She knew that
she was said to be a poor relation of the Derinzy family, and she did
not discourage the idea. Thinking over the past, and what might have
been, she found a kind of grim humour in the combination which suited
her thoroughly. They might say what they liked, she thought, so long as
her money was regularly paid, and so long as she found herself able to
carry out the one scheme of her life--that of making a good marriage
for her daughter Fanny.
Fanny then, under the name of Miss Stafford, was apprenticed to
Madame Clarisse, the great court milliner, in London, and lived, when
she was at home--and that was not often, poor child! for she slaved
like a horse--in one little room in a house in South Molton Street,
a lodging-house kept by an old sister-nurse of Mrs. Stothard's at
St. Vitus's, a most respectable motherly woman, who would look after
Fanny, and would at once let her mother know if there was "anything
wrong." Not that there was any chance of that. Fanny Stafford acted
up too strictly to her mother's teaching, and remembered too well the
doctrine which had been inculcated in her girlhood, ever to make that
mistake. She had been told that to marry a man considerably above her
in pecuniary and social position was her mission in life; to that
end she might use all her charms, all her arts; but that end must be
marriage--nothing less. This she understood, and daily experience
made her more and more impressed with the wisdom of her mother's
determination. She had not much heart, she thought; she did not think
she had any passion; and she knew that she had keen discrimination and
accurate perception of character; so she thought she ought to succeed.
Mrs. Stothard was acquainted with the peculiarities of her daughter's
character, and thought so too.
At the very time when Captain Derinzy was lying stretched out on the
headland overlooking Beachborough Bay, and making those cynical remarks
on the place and its population, Mrs. Stothard was preparing to read a
letter from her daughter Fanny. It had arrived in the morning; but Mrs.
Stothard had been very busy all day, and it was not until the evening
that she found time to read it. Her occupation had confined her to
the house, so that now, being for a few minutes free, she was glad to
escape into the grounds. She chose that portion of the flower-garden
which was farthest removed from the side of the house which she
principally inhabited; and as she paced up and down the soft turf path
between two rows of espaliers, she took the letter from her pocket and
commenced to read it. It was written in a small delicate hand, and Mrs.
Stothard had to hold it close to her eyes in the fading light. She read
as follows:
"London, Sunday.
"MY DEAR MOTHER,--You will have been expecting to hear from me for
some time, and, indeed, you ought to have had a letter, but the truth
is I am so tired and sleepy when I get back here that I am glad to
go straight to bed. We are just now in the height of the season, and
are so busy that I scarcely ever have time to sit down. I told you,
I think, that I was likely to be in the showroom this season. I was
right. Madame asked me if I should like to be there, and when I said
'Yes,' she seemed pleased; and I have been there since April. I think
I have made myself even more useful than she expected; for many of
the customers know me now, and ask to see me in preference to Madame
herself. I suppose she does not quite like that, but it is not my
fault. I know I am neat and handy, and that there is no one in the
house with so much education or so much manner, and these are both
points which are noticed by customers. Nevertheless, I think I am
winning my way into Madame's good graces; for when she goes out--and
she is now out a great deal, at the French plays, at the Opera, and in
private society; you have no notion what an immense amount of reception
goes on amongst the French _coiffeurs_ and _modistes_ in London--she
invariably leaves me to see the parcels sent off and the business of
the day wound up. She has no forewoman, as I have told you, and I think
I might aspire to that important post with reasonable hope of success
if I wished it, but I don't.
"No, dear mother; it would give me no pleasure to have my name on as
big a brass plate as Madame Clarisse's, on as handsome a door in as
eligible a situation. I should derive no satisfaction even if I could
combine her connection with Madame Augustine's, her great rival.
(Augustine's _clientèle_ is richer than ours, I think, but we have
by far the _best_ people.) I long sometimes, when I see a wretched
old creature nodding under a wreath when she ought to be concealing
her bald pate or her gray hairs under an honest mob-cap, or when I am
helping a stout middle-aged matron to struggle into a gown of a style
and pattern suitable for her youngest daughter, to throw all my chances
of success in business to the winds, and tell the people then under
my hands plainly and openly what I think of them. I cannot stand--or
rather I could not, were it for a permanence; I can well enough for
a time--this wretched ko-tooing existence, this perpetual grinning
and curtsying and false-compliment paying, this utter abnegation of
one's own opinion, one's own feelings, one's own self! You must not be
surprised at these expressions, dear mother, recollecting how you have
had me brought up, and how you yourself have always inculcated in me a
strong desire to better my position, and by a good marriage to raise
myself into a class superior to this.
"Mother, I think I'm going to do it. I think that I have a chance of
freeing myself from this servitude, which is galling to me, and of
winning a station in life such as you yourself would be proud to see
me holding. You remember how you used to talk to me about this when I
was much younger, and how I used then to laugh at your earnestness, and
tell you your hopes and aspirations were but dreams? I declare now I
think there is some chance of their being realised.
"Now you are all impatience, and dying to know all I have to tell! I
can see you--I suppose you are not much changed since we last parted;
I often wonder--I can see you skimming over the paper in your eager
anxiety to get at the details. I will not keep you in suspense, dear
mother--here they are! A month ago, I was returning to Mrs. Gillott's
late at night. We had been hard at work until nearly twelve o'clock,
getting out a large wedding order, and Madame thought it important
enough to superintend the packing and sending out of the various
things. I had remained till the last, and the church-clock opposite
struck twelve as the door closed behind me. The streets were almost
deserted; but I had not gone far before I perceived that a man was
following me. I could not make out what kind of a man he was, as he
persistently kept in the shade, walking at first on the opposite side
of the way, then crossing behind me, but ever constantly following.
I knew this from the sound of his footsteps, which echoed in the
stillness of the night. When I crossed Bond Street he came abreast of
me, and then I saw that he was a common man in his working dress. I was
frightened then, I confess. You don't know what they are sometimes,
mother, these working men. I would sooner meet any gentleman, however
loose, any what they call 'gent,' than some of those! It isn't their
conduct, it's what they say! They seem to delight in using the most
awful language, the foulest terms, to unprotected girls; merely,
apparently, for the sake of insulting them. This man was a bad specimen
of his class. There was no one near, and he stepped up to my side after
we had crossed Bond Street, and said to me things--I don't know what,
for I hurried on without looking towards him. I knew well enough what
he said next, he took care that there should be no mistake about that,
for he prefaced his remark with a short laugh of scorn and defiance,
and then--he made his speech. I was not surprised; no girl compelled to
walk alone in London, and especially at night, could be surprised at
anything that might be said to her; but I was disgusted and frightened,
and tried to run. The man ran by my side--I saw then that he was
drunk--and tried to catch hold of me. I was in a dreadful fright, and
I suppose I looked so, for a gentleman who was coming out of the hotel
at the corner of South Molton Street stepped hurriedly out, and said,
'I beg your pardon--is this person annoying you?' Before I could reply,
the man said something--too horrible--about me and himself, and the
next moment he was lying in the road; the gentleman had taken him by
the collar and flung him there. He got up, and rushed at the gentleman;
but by this time a policeman who had seen it all crossed the street,
and made him go away. Then the gentleman took off his hat, and begged
leave to see me to my door. I allowed him to do so--it was foolish, I
know, mother, but I was all unnerved, and scarcely knew what I did;
and when we arrived at Mrs. Gillott's I thanked him, and bade him
Goodnight. He took off his hat again, and left me at once.
"He found out who I was--how, I don't know--for next day I had a polite
note, hoping I had quite recovered from my alarm, expressed in the most
gentlemanly manner, and signed 'Paul Douglas.' I have met him several
times since, always in the street, and have walked and talked with
him. He is always most polite and respectful, but of course professes
himself to be madly in love. Yesterday, for the first time, I found
out who he is. He has an appointment in a Government office, the
'Stannaries' they call it, and his family live somewhere in the West of
England. They are evidently well off, and he, Paul, is what they call a
'swell.' Very good-looking, slight and dark, about five-and-twenty, and
always beautifully dressed.
"You don't fear me, mother? You have sufficient reliance on me to know
that I would never discredit your training. You will want to know
whether I am in love with this young man. I think I am--so far. And you
need not be afraid. He vows--everything, of course; but he is too much
of a gentleman, in the first place, to offer to insult me, and in the
second--well, to speak plainly, he knows it would be of no use. Is this
the chance that you taught me to look for? I think it is. But we shall
soon know. Meanwhile believe in the thorough discretion of your loving
daughter FANNY."
Up and down the soft turf path paced Mrs. Stothard in the glorious
summer evening, with the open letter in her hand, deep in cogitation.
Her head was bent upon her breast, and occasionally raised as she
referred to the paper. Suddenly a light gleamed in her face; she
hurriedly re-perused the letter, folding it so as only to make herself
thorough mistress of a certain portion of its contents, and then she
smiled a hard grim smile, and said to herself in a hard bitter voice:
"Of course, of course! What an idiot I was not to see it at once!
The mention of the Stannaries Office might have convinced me, if all
my senses had not been blunted by my wretched work in this wretched
place! Douglas, indeed! Paul Douglas is Paul Derinzy; slight, dark,
handsome--none but he! Family in the West of England, too--no doubt of
it! And in love with my Fan! Oh, my dear friends, I'll spoil your game
yet! I'm so blind. Quiet and seclusion for dear Annette's health; no
other reason, oh no! Not to keep her out of the way of fortune-hunters,
and save her up for our son, oh dear no! That shall never be! Our son
shall marry my Fan! What is it? 'The sins of the fathers shall be
visited on the children.' I never believed much in that sort of thing;
but in this instance it really looks as though there were something in
it."