"If I could only get poor Pierce to believe in me again!" sighed Jenny,
as she lay back in an easy chair at the cottage, after a month of
illness; for in addition to the violent sprain from which she had
suffered, the exposure had brought on a violent rheumatic cold and
fever, from which she was slowly recovering.
"But he doesn't believe in me a bit now, even after all I've suffered.
Oh, how I should like to punish that wretched boy before I go!"
She was sitting close to the window, where she could look down the road
toward the village, her eyes dull, her face listless, thinking over the
past--her favourite way of making herself miserable, as she had no heart
attachment, or disappointment, as a mental "piece de resistance" to
feast upon during her illness.
Everything had gone so differently from the way she had planned. Pierce
was to marry Kate Wilton, and be rich and happy ever afterwards; she
intended to be what she called a nice, little, old maiden aunt, to pet
and tend all her brother's children, for, of course, Kate and Pierce
would have her to live with them; but it was all over--Kate had gone, no
one knew where; Pierce, who had always loved her so tenderly, scarcely
ever spoke to her as he used. He was quiet, grave, and civil, but never
walked up and down the garden with his arm round her waist, laughing and
joking with her, and talking about the prince who was to come some day
to carry her off to his palace. It was all misery and wretchedness.
"I'm sure nobody could have been so ill and suffered so much before,"
she said, "and I'm growing so white, and thin, and ugly, and old
looking, and I'm sure I shall have to go about with a crutch; and it's
so lonely with Pierce always going out to see old women and old men who
are not half so bad as I am; and I wish I was dead! Oh, dear, oh, oh,
dear, I wonder whether it hurts much to die. If it does, I'll ask
Pierce to give me some laudanum to put me out of my misery, and--Oh,
who's that?"
A carriage had drawn up at the gate, and she leaned forward to see.
"Mrs Wilton's carriage," she said, quickly growing interested, "and
poor Pierce out. Oh, dear, how vexatious it is, when he wants patients
so badly! I wonder who's ill now. It can't be that little wretch,
because I saw him ride by an hour ago, and stare at the place; and it
can't be Mr Wilton, because he always goes over to Dixter market on
Fridays. It must be Mrs Wilton herself."
"If you please, miss, here's Missus Wilton," said the tall, gawky girl,
just emancipated from the village schools to be Jenny's maid-of-all-work
and nurse, and the lady in question entered with her village basket upon
her arm.
"Ah! my dear child!" she cried, bustling across the room, putting her
basket on the table, and then bobbing down to kiss Jenny, who sat up,
frowning and stiff. "No, no, don't get up."
"I was not going to, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, coldly; "I can't."
"Think of that, now," cried the visitor, drawing a chair forward, and
carefully spreading her silks and furs as she sat down; "and I've been
so dreadfully unneighbourly in not coming to see you, though I did not
know you had been so bad as this. You see, I've had such troubles of my
own to attend to that I couldn't think of anything else; but it all came
to me to-day that I had neglected you shamefully, and so I said to
myself, I'd come over at once, as Mr Wilton and my son were both out,
and bring you a bit of chicken, and a bottle of wine, and the very last
bunch of grapes before it got too mouldy in the vinery, and here I am."
"Yes, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, stiffly; "but if you please, I am not
one of the poor people of the parish."
"Why, no, my dear, of course not; but whatever put that in your head?"
"The wine, Mrs Wilton."
"But it's the best port, my dear--not what I give to the poor."
"And the bit of chicken, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, viciously.
"But it isn't a bit, my dear; it's a whole one," said the lady, looking
troubled.
"A cold one, left over from last night's dinner," said Jenny, half
hysterically.
"Indeed, no, my dear," cried the visitor, appealingly; "it isn't a
cooked one at all, but a nice, young Dorking cockerel from the farm."
"And a bunch of mouldy grapes," cried Jenny, passionately, bursting into
a fit of sobbing, "just as if I were widow Gee!"
"Why, my dear child, I--oh, I see, I see; you're only just getting
better, and you're lonely and low, and it makes you feel fractious and
cross, and I know. There, there, there, my poor darling! I ought to
have come before and seen you, for I always did like to see your pretty,
little, merry face, and there, there, there!" she continued, as she
knelt by the chair, and in a gentle, motherly way, drew the little, thin
invalid to her expansive breast, kissing and fondling and cooing over
her, as she rocked her to and fro, using her own scented handkerchief to
dry the tears.
"That's right. Have a good cry, my dear. It will relieve you, and
you'll feel better then. I know myself how peevish it makes one to be
ill, with no one to tend and talk to you; but you won't be angry with me
now for bringing you the fruit and wine, for indeed, indeed, they are
the best to be had, and do you think I'd be so purse-proud and insulting
as to treat you as one of the poor people? No, indeed, my dear, for I
don't mind telling you that I'm only going to be a poor woman myself,
for things are to be very sadly altered, and when I come to see you, if
I'm to stay here instead of going to the workhouse, there'll be no
carriage, but I shall have to walk."
"I--I--beg your pardon, Mrs Wilton," sobbed Jenny. "I say cross things
since I have been so ill."
"Of course you do, my precious, and quite natural. We women understand
it. I wish the gentlemen did; but dear, dear me, they think no one has
a right to be cross but them, and they are, too, sometimes. You can't
think what I have to put up with from Mr Wilton and my son, though he
is a dear, good boy at heart, only spoiled. But you're getting better,
my dear, and you'll soon be well."
"Yes, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, piteously, "if I don't die first."
"Oh, tut, tut, tut! die, at your age. Why, even at mine I never think
of such a thing. But, oh, my dear child, I want you to try and pity and
comfort me. You know, of course, what trouble we have been in."
"Yes," said Jenny. "I have heard, and I'm better now, Mrs Wilton.
Won't you sit down?"
"To be sure I will, my dear. There: that's better. And now we can have
a cozy chat, just as we used when you came to the Manor. Oh, dear, no
visitors now, my child. It's all debt and misery and ruin. The place
isn't the same. Poor, poor Kate!"
"Have you heard where she is, Mrs Wilton?"
"No, my dear," said the visitor, tightening her lips and shaking her
head, "and never shall. Poor dear angel! I am right. I'm sure it's as
I said."
Jenny looked at her curiously, while every nerve thrilled with the
desire to know more.
"I felt it at the first," continued Mrs Wilton. "No sooner did they
tell me that she was gone than I knew that in her misery and despair she
had gone and thrown herself into the lake; and though I was laughed at
and pooh-poohed, there she lies, poor child. I'm as sure of it as I sit
here."
"Mrs Wilton!" cried Jenny, in horrified tones. "Oh, pray, pray, don't
say that!" and she burst into a hysterical lit of weeping.
"I'm obliged to, my dear," said the visitor, taking a trembling hand in
hers, and kissing it; "but don't you cry and fret, though it's very good
of you, and I know you loved the sweet, gentle darling. Ah, it was all
a terrible mistake, and I've often lain awake, crying without a sound,
so as not to wake Mr Wilton and make him cross. Of course you know Mr
Wilton settled that Claud was to marry her, and when he says a thing is
to be, it's no use for me to say a word. He's master. It's `love,
honour, and obey,' my dear, when you're a married lady, as you'll find
out some day."
"No, Mrs Wilton, I shall never marry."
"Ah, that's what we all say, my child, but the time comes when we think
differently. But as I was telling you, I thought it was all a mistake,
but I had to do what Mr Wilton wished, though I felt that they weren't
suited a bit, and I know Claud did not care for her. I'd a deal rather
have seen him engaged to a nice little girl like you."
"Mrs Wilton!" said Jenny, indignantly.
"Oh, dear me, what have I said?" cried the lady, smiling. "He's wilful
and foolish and idle, and fond of sport; but my boy Claud isn't at all a
bad lad--well, not so very--and he'll get better; and I'm sure you used
to like to have a talk with him when you came to the Manor."
"Indeed I did not!" cried Jenny, flushing warmly.
"Oh, very well then, I'm a silly old woman, and I was mistaken, that's
all. But there, there, we don't want to talk about such things, with
that poor child lying at the bottom of the lake; and they won't have it
dragged."
"But surely she would not have done such a thing, Mrs Wilton," cried
Jenny, wildly.
"I don't know, my dear. They say I'm very stupid, but I can't help,
thinking it, for she was very weak and low and wretched, and she quite
hated poor Claud for the way he treated her. But I never will believe
that she eloped with that young Mr Dasent."
"Neither will I," cried Jenny, indignantly. "She would not do such a
thing."
"That she would not, my dear; and I say it's a shame to say it, but my
husband will have it that he has carried her off for the sake of her
money. And as I said to my husband, `You thought the same about poor
Claud, when the darling boy was as innocent as a dove.' There, I'm
right, I'm sure I'm right. She's lying asleep at the bottom of the
lake."
Jenny's face contracted with horror, and her visitor caught her in her
arms again.
"There, there, don't look like that, my dear. She's nothing to you, and
I'm a very silly old woman, and I dare say I'm wrong. I came here to be
like a good neighbour, and try and comfort you, and I'm only making you
worse. That's just like me, my dear. But now look here. You mustn't
go about with that white face. You want change, and you shall come over
to the Manor and stay for a month. It will do you good."
"No," said Jenny, quietly. "I can not come, thank you, Mrs Wilton. My
brother would not permit it."
"But he must, for your sake. Oh, these men, these men!"
"It is impossible," said Jenny, holding out her hand, "for we are going
away."
"Going away! Well, I am sorry. Ah, me! It's a sad world, and maybe I
shall be gone away, too, before long. But you might come for a week.
Why not to-morrow?"
Jenny shook her head, and the visitor parted from her so affectionately
that no further opposition was made to the basket's contents.