It is not to be supposed that Mr. Devereux had received calmly the news
of the arrival of a young heiress. The matter had been kept so close
that it burst upon him with a surprise as great as that which it had
caused to Mr. Smythe, and the surprise overwhelmed him. He was a man
who, though with a hard, unimaginative mind, always believed what he
chose to believe. He had decided that there would be no Master or Miss
Smythe, and having so decided, he had felt little anxiety on the
subject. He had made his plans for dealing with a mad old man and a
silly young wife, and having made his plans he rested.
The arrival of a child overset his plans. Will or no will, no one could
say that a child was not the nearest of kin to its own father. He was
unable to form his plans for the future, and his mind became tossed with
passion. The only settled plan he could form was, that the child should
die; not die by his plotting, he was not bad enough for that; but that
it must and should die. It was a hateful intruder in the world, and it
was no doubt intended to die. His mind prone, as was said, to believe
what it wished, shortly began to believe this. The agreeable subject of
his daily wishes was the death of an infant, and by means of wishes he
began to be convinced it would be so.
Meanwhile the child lived and grew, and no tales of its unhealthiness
were heard.
No communication had ever taken place between the families. In sundry
disagreeable ways Mr. Devereux managed to keep himself and his rights in
Mr. Smythe’s mind; but he allowed no visiting. When Mrs. Smythe was
confined, a maternal fellow-feeling had drawn from Mrs. Devereux an
expression of a wish to make her acquaintance and see the baby. But it
had been received with a negative so fierce and savage that she yielded
at once. No doubt Simon had his good reasons.
When Annora was nearly a year old, she one day met Mrs. Ratcliffe. The
Devereuxs lived beyond Kensington, and Mrs. Ratcliffe had been on a
visit to a sick relation in the same quarter. She was walking along the
road to find an omnibus, and Mrs. Devereux was taking a walk with her
two children.
Mrs. Ratcliffe and Letitia Allen had been good friends before, and
friends in a degree after Letitia’s marriage. She had, however, so
resented the neglect of Mrs. Smythe that of late the friendship had
lapsed into a quiet enmity. Mrs. Devereux neglected Mrs. Smythe, and she
in return neglected Mrs. Devereux. When, however, she saw her leading a
fine little boy by the hand, her enmity for the moment ceased. She could
not resist stopping to ask her how she did, and begging for a kiss from
the fine little boy.
Poor Letitia had felt no enmity. She had not indeed a heart strong
enough to nourish any strong passion; and though, in obedience to her
husband, it liked and disliked at his pleasure, they were mild
sensations, liable to be overset at the very least temptation. She
forgot all about the strife, and turned and walked and talked with Mrs.
Ratcliffe; easing her mind of many anxious questions regarding the
health of Mrs. and Miss Smythe.
Mrs. Ratcliffe had too much wisdom and dignity to enter on unpleasant
topics. She made no allusion to the coolness that had taken place, but,
when she went home, observed to Mrs. Smythe that it was no fault of Mrs.
Devereux’s that she did not call; and expatiating on the charms of the
boy, stirred up her young mistress to interest and curiosity concerning
him. He was, she explained to her, between three and four years old, and
had “such a sweet, rosy, mischievous face, she should have liked to have
cooked and eaten him on the spot.”
Mrs. Smythe was much excited, and inquired whether she thought she
might send him a present. Most christianly anxious to appease strifes,
Mrs. Ratcliffe encouraged the idea, and they went together to the Soho
Bazaar, from whence a large and handsome cart and team of horses, the
cart full of sacks, were despatched to the villa beyond Kensington. It
was addressed--
“_For Mr. Henry Devereux,
With Miss Smythe’s love._”
This was a master-stroke of policy. Mrs. Ratcliffe could read the bad
feelings which Mr. Devereux entertained towards Mrs. Smythe both in his
conduct and his countenance; but the poor little innocent baby was, she
supposed, for the present at least, an innocent object in his eyes.
When Mr. Devereux came down to dinner on the evening after the arrival
of the present, his children, as was generally the case, for he dined
early, were brought down and sat in a corner. When he was in a good
temper he liked them to be there, for he was fond of his children in a
certain way; and if he was in a bad temper, he liked them to be there,
as it gave him more opportunities of finding fault with his submissive
wife than he might otherwise have found. Of late he had indeed always
been in a bad temper. The gnawing hate he felt to the unwelcome child
left no peace in his heart. But even a bad temper has its variations.
There are no good days perhaps, but there are very bad days and moderate
days. This was a moderate day. Shortly before his arrival at home he had
forced a tradesman who demurred to give him discount on a bill, and this
had produced a certain glow of satisfaction. Instead therefore of
saying, “What a row these children make!--hush! hush! hush!” he
observed, when dinner was about half concluded, “What has happened to
Letitia’s tongue to-day?”
There were certainly other reasons besides moderation of temper that
called for this observation. For the last ten minutes the children had
not been quiet only, they had been dumb. Intense curiosity regarding the
contents of the sacks possessed them, and one armed with a rusty nail,
the other with a large crooked yellow pin, were hacking away at the
seams and necks of the sacks. But at the very moment he spoke, the quiet
was broken. Letitia was nearly five years old, and her crooked pin,
though a feeble instrument, had at last produced an effect. A drop of
bran, like a drop of blood, began to ooze out of a hole in the seam.
Henry screamed with joy, and attempted to gain possession of Letitia’s
sack. Mr. Devereux looked at his wife, to inquire what was going on.
Now Mrs. Devereux had fully intended to tell her husband what had
occurred; she had been thinking of it ever since he returned home, and
was only watching for a favourable opportunity. Nevertheless, there was
a slight blush on her cheek as she said, “It is rather a long story; I
was going to tell you, Simon.”
The fact was, when the present arrived, she and her children had been so
enraptured with its appearance, that, forgetting the strife and her
husband’s probable displeasure, they had all sat upon the floor to
unpack and enjoy it. Afterwards a fear had arisen that she ought to have
awaited his consent to receive it; and though she said to herself,
“From the baby he cannot mind,” she was perfectly aware that it was at
the best a doubtful matter.
Mr. Devereux saw the blush and guessed a cause. He waited with cold
staring eyes to hear the long story; and it was given, haltingly,
hesitatingly, apologetically, and diffusely.
Then he rang the bell.
“Bring back the wrappers of the parcel that arrived this afternoon,” he
said sternly. He was obeyed. A number of sheets of brown paper were
brought into the room. “That will do,” he said, and the servant went.
“Now pack it up,” he said to his wife.
Mrs. Devereux rose. She saw he was angry, angry in his worst
manner--coldly, sternly angry; but she did not blame him. She felt how
wrong she had been. Desirous to do her best, she now coaxed the
children into assisting her, by saying she was going to put the cart to
bed.
“No, it is not going to bed,” thundered out her husband. “It is going
away for good.”
The children looked at him. They were too much awed to cry; and Mrs.
Devereux hastily finished the packing while they sat staring at their
father. It was only when it was fairly hidden, and the cord was being
tied, that little Henry recovered his self-possession. When he did
recover it he laid his fat hand on the parcel, clenched his teeth, and
shouted,
“It’s mine, and it shan’t go away!”
“Set it down, sir!” again thundered out the father, and again the
children were awed into staring wonder.
After a moment Mr. Devereux spoke again, and this time coldly and
calmly--
“Listen to me,” he said. “That parcel was sent by a person who has no
right to send it. She is your enemy. She has robbed you--_robbed you_;
mind what I say. She must not pretend to love you, and you must not love
her.”
The children were young, but they were excited at this explanation. The
little girl, a sharp-featured, forward child, with a great deal of her
father in her face, came towards the table, and asked pertly,
“Shall I hate her?”
“You may. You have good right. I hate her because she has robbed _you_.”
“I hate her!” said the child, with emphasis.
The little boy now approached, and put his chin on the table.
“And _I_ hate her,” he said.
Though the childish face was “sweet, rosy and mischievous,” his cheeks
flashed and his eyes kindled as he spoke; an innate consciousness that
he was doing wrong made the words delightful to him, and he spoke them
with heart-felt savageness.
Mrs. Devereux looked at her husband. She could hardly think this was a
right education. She could hardly think this was a picture of Christian
principles. She expected some word of disapprobation; but no such came.
“That will do,” he said. “Remember. And now go to bed.”
It was some minutes before she could gather her senses sufficiently to
summon her usual principle of guidance to her aid. When she did so, and
had mentally observed “that Simon must know best,” she sighed a short,
unwonted sigh, and then banished the subject from her mind.