THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.
Some time after the above events, Frederick’s little house in
Mayfair--which had been the only advantage poor Amanda had gained by
marrying him, and which had been furnished according to her taste, in a
somewhat showy, modern fashion, with dashes of ill-considered and
ill-fitting antiquity--became vacant. The tenant who had taken it for
the winter months gave it up at the end of February: as it had proved a
somewhat profitable investment, Frederick, who had a lease of the house,
decided on letting it again, furnished. A little more money is never a
matter of indifference to a young man with expensive tastes, and he was
very willing to add to his income in this way. Before the house was let
again, however, it was necessary that all the personal lumber Mrs.
Frederick had left behind her should be cleared away. Her trunks, which
had been placed in one locked-up room, her knick-knacks, the trifles
with which she had filled her drawing-room, had to be put in order, and
either restored to their places or distributed to her friends. Frederick
found his mother and sister quite adverse to the office of looking over
Amanda’s “things.” Her clothes and her finery were objects in which they
took no interest, except the pitiful and painful one which now
encompassed everything she had possessed. But they would neither accept
this melancholy, tawdry inheritance which she had left behind her, for
themselves, nor did they feel any inclination to take upon them the
office of arbitrators and distributors among her friends. He sent for
Aunty in his perplexity from Sterborne. He had sworn to have nothing to
do with the family henceforward, but in this strait he did not hesitate.
Aunty came up to London on his application, almost by return of post.
The dead woman’s finery was all interesting to her. She had a pleasure
in trying it on, in estimating its value, in selecting some for herself,
in laying aside various articles for other friends. The office pleased
Aunty immensely; and as this sad but satisfactory piece of business
entailed the necessity of a prolonged visit to town,--where she lived in
Frederick’s house “like a lady,” with two maids to serve her, and a room
for a friend, and the most congenial occupation--it is not wonderful
that she should have regarded it with pleasure. It pleased Batty too
that his son-in-law, whom he described in his own circle as being proud
as Lucifer, yet acknowledged in this way the existence and the claims of
his wife’s family. He sent a friendly message by Aunty to the effect
that he himself would soon pay Frederick a visit. He had begun to
recover the shock of his daughter’s death. Marriage had already
separated her from him, and such grief as his does not resist the
softening influence of time and circumstances. Frederick’s “attention”
flattered and pleased him,--and Frederick’s family was always something
to brag of. Even Innocent’s marriage was a feather in Mr. Batty’s
cap,--“My poor girl’s cousin,” he called her. He was most amiable to the
Eastwoods, who had showed, he said, every respect to his girl. It was
only when any appearance of indifference to Amanda’s memory displayed
itself that his violence of grief returned. When some one suggested that
his son-in-law would soon marry again, his face clouded over; “Confound
him! if he can forget my girl so soon!” he cried; but Frederick’s appeal
to Aunty mollified him entirely. “He was bound up in my poor girl, was
Frederick Eastwood,” he said after that. And during the winter he had
been afflicted with rheumatism, and with brandy-and-water, as bad a form
of disease; therefore he had not gone to town, nor put his son-in-law’s
friendliness to the test. But the invitation to Aunty opened the door to
further intimacy; so Frederick did not intend--but so Batty thought.
It was a disappointment to both of these personages to find that their
host was not really their host, and that in reality it was an empty
house in which they were sent to live. The table was indeed supplied at
Frederick’s cost, and he himself was guiltless of any idea that he was
not doing everything that could be required of him; but Amanda’s
relations were sensitive. Then, too, the maids were not so respectful as
Aunty felt they ought to have been. They judged her, I suppose, as we
are all disposed to do, by her appearance, and were not careful to do
their service according to the strict measure of their duty. She had
expected to go to Frederick’s house to become for the time his
housekeeper and virtual mistress of his dwelling--to be supreme over the
servants, and have the management in her hands--perhaps to drive out in
the brougham which Amanda had told her of; and thus to relieve her
heavier labours by a few London sights such as had not for a long time
been afforded to her. As for Batty, though he intended his visit to be a
short one, he, too, expected to be Frederick’s guest, to see Frederick’s
friends, to go with him to his club, and to pick up at least a few names
which he could in the future produce among his friends as “cronies of my
son-in-law’s.” He had no intention of being hard upon Frederick. He
already knew, and had known before Amanda’s reign commenced, that the
morality of the young man was far from perfect. If he had discovered new
traces of indulgences similar to those he had witnessed in Paris, he
would have thought the poor fellow excusable, and would have made every
allowance for him. But it was a very different thing to arrive in
Frederick’s empty house--to be received by Aunty alone, whose society he
did not prize highly--to have a dinner served up to him imperfectly
cooked, the maids not caring to put themselves out of the way for such
guests--to be shown into a bedroom partially dismantled, and in which no
particular preparations for his comfort had been thought necessary. “By
George! What does it all mean?” he said. “It means that Frederick
Eastwood don’t think us good enough for his company,” said Aunty, who
was much galled by the want of reverence for herself shown by the
servants. “Well, well,” said Batty, persevering in his good-humour, “I
dare say he’s got other things to think of. I’ll set all that right
to-morrow.” In his heart he concluded that Frederick’s reluctance to set
up house with Aunty was natural enough, but his own presence would alter
all that. He put up with it accordingly the first night. He went to look
at his daughter’s dresses hung up to air in the best bedroom, and his
heart softened more and more. “I don’t doubt now as my poor girl was
very happy here,” he said, looking round upon all the fittings of the
room which had been hers. They were of a kind which he considered
luxurious--as such they had been chosen by _her_. No want of “respect”
was visible in this bower, which she had fitted up for herself. He went
to his own room after this inspection, melancholy and slightly maudlin,
but satisfied, and had a little more brandy-and-water, and concluded
that next day he should see Frederick, and set all right.
Next day, however, things were not set right. He went to the Sealing Wax
Office, and found that his son-in-law was out. Frederick was no longer
afraid of him, and the senility of fear was over for ever in his mind.
Before his marriage he would not have dared to be out of the way when a
man commanding the secret of his life called upon him; but everybody
knew now what a mistake and _mésalliance_ poor Eastwood had made, and
how he had been providentially delivered from it. Batty, gradually
growing furious, proceeded in the afternoon to The Elms, to call upon
the ladies. He saw, or thought he saw, them at the window, as he drove
to the door in his Hansom, and was about to enter with familiar freedom
as a connexion of the family, when Brownlow stopped him solemnly with a
“Not at home, sir.”
“Not at home!” cried Batty, “I saw them at the window. Take in my name,
my good fellow. I am not a stranger. Your mistress will see me.”
“My mistress is out,” said Brownlow solemnly--which was true to the
letter, as Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly had escaped by the garden door at
sight of the visitor, and were now deep in the recesses of the Lady’s
Walk.
Batty looked at him like an infuriated bull--his face growing red, and
his eyes projected out of his head. “By Jove, sir, you shall smart for
this!” he cried in spite of himself.
Brownlow held his ground with all the imperturbability of a well-trained
serving-man.
“Not at home, sir,” he repeated, steadily. “Perhaps you would like, sir,
to leave a message? My mistress will be in to dinner.”
Batty closed the door of his Hansom with a crash that rang through the
whole neighbourhood. He drove off furious. But still, after all the
business of the day was done, he returned to the little house in
Mayfair, feeling it impossible that Frederick could have the audacity to
leave him another evening alone. He found Aunty again by herself, almost
weeping over the insolence of the maids, with another careless dinner,
indifferent service--altogether a contemptuous mode of treatment. “Hang
me if I stand this!” he said, making off as soon as he had eaten his
badly-cooked meal to his son-in-law’s club, resolute to find him, one
way or another, and “to have it out with him.” Aunty remained behind in
equally high dudgeon. She said to herself that “these Eastwoods” must
have suborned the servants to be insolent to her. Thus, in the most
unconsidered and, so to speak, innocent way did this unfortunate family
forge against themselves the thunderbolt which was to strike them almost
into social ruin. Frederick had certainly meant to avoid his wife’s
relations, but not with any such determined and insolent purpose as
Batty gave him credit for; and Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly did, indeed, run
out of the house in order to avoid receiving the visit of Amanda’s
father, but only from the impulse of the moment, without any concerted
plan. And when it was done, compunctions rose within the breasts of the
ladies. Mrs. Eastwood accused herself of her fault at dinner on the same
night.
“Should you like me to call on--Miss Johnson, Frederick?” she said. “I
am sorry that Nelly and I were so foolish. I am sure I have often
received people I had as little sympathy with as Mr. Batty. Indeed,
poor man, I have a great deal of sympathy with him. Should you like me
to call on Miss Johnson?”
“Who on earth is Miss Johnson?” cried Frederick. “Aunty, do you mean?
Why should you call on her? She has not any social pretensions, that I
know of. Poor soul, to do her justice, she never went in for that sort
of thing.”
“Then you think I need not call?” Mrs. Eastwood said, with a look of
relief; “I confess I would rather not. Brownlow,” she said, some time
after, “you will find a parcel in the library, addressed to Miss
Johnson, at Mr. Eastwood’s. Will you take it to-night, or to-morrow
morning? Leave it with my compliments, and say I hope to have the
pleasure of calling before she leaves town. Perhaps it is better to say
that,” added the diplomatist. “Things might occur to prevent our having
the pleasure--but it is as well not to offend any one, unless we cannot
help it.” She said this without the least idea that anything more than a
breach of her own perfect good manners could be involved in offending
the Batty family. She had wounded her own sense of right and wrong by
avoiding Batty’s visit. It did not occur to her to think what effect her
“rudeness” might have produced on him.
The parcel in the library contained a few books, some music, a fan, and
a handkerchief, left at various times by Amanda at The Elms. Brownlow
grumbled slightly, as he went down-stairs, at this commission.
“If a man is to be kept running of errands all day long, ’ow is ’is work
to get done?” said Brownlow. Jane, the housemaid, not generally
considered very “ready to oblige,” answered this appeal at once.
“It’s a fine evening,” she said, “and I’d like a walk. I’ll take ’em for
you, Mr. Brownlow, and leave the message. My work’s done, and I’m sick
of needlework. Don’t say a word about it. I’d like the walk.”
“There’s some one a-waiting, I make no doubt, under the lamp-post,” said
Brownlow; and Jane had to bear the brunt of some raillery, such as
abounds in the regions down-stairs. She took it very calmly, making no
protestations.
“There may be half-a-dozen under the lamp-post, for what I know,” said
Jane.
Thus the matter arranged itself with the utmost simplicity. Never did
messenger of evil leave a household more unsuspicious. Mrs. Eastwood had
as little conception of what was in preparation as had the innocent
Brownlow, who would have walked to the end of the world rather than
accept this fatal substitute, had he known. But neither he knew, nor any
one. The soft spring air caressed Nelly’s face as she looked out from
the hall window, wondering if any one was coming, and saw Jane’s dark
figure passing through the gate; just as softly it caressed the
countenance of Jane herself, on her way to spread havock and
consternation. But the girl at the window had no fear, and the girl at
the door only an excited sense of importance. Jane had not even any very
bad meaning, so far as she was aware. She was bursting with the
something which she had to tell; this could not but bring some advantage
to herself, she thought; as for the disadvantage to others, she did not
realize to what length that might go, or feel that its greatness would
overbalance the importance and benefit to come to her. On this point her
imagination altogether failed her. I believe, for my own part, that
imagination is the first faculty wanting in those that do harm to their
kind, great or small.
Just about the same moment Batty, breathing fire and flame, had found
Frederick, and was pouring out the history of his grievances.
“Do you ask a man to your house, you fine gentleman, when you’re not at
home?” cried Batty. “Lord, I wouldn’t invite a dog, unless I meant him
to share my kennel. A miserable, empty place, with a couple of impudent
maids--that’s what you call giving your friends hospitality, eh? You
invite a gentleman like that----”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Frederick; “I am not aware that I ever
took so great a liberty as to invite you.”
“Confound your politeness and your impudence!” said the other: and
became so noisy that Frederick left the club, enduring without replying
to the abuse of his companion, who, however, gradually calmed down as
they emerged into the open air, where there was no one to hear what he
said. He told his son-in-law of the affront put upon him at The
Elms--how the door had been shut in his face, though he had seen the
ladies at the window--and demanded to be invited there, as a proof that
no insult was intended. “I don’t care twopence for your paltry dinner,”
he said. “Thank God, I can feed myself and all belonging to me, without
being beholden to any man or woman either; but hang me if I’ll stand
your disdainful ways. If you want to quarrel, say so; now that my poor
girl’s gone, you and your stuck-up set are nothing to me. But a man’s
honour’s his honour, however you take it. If there weren’t no affront
intended, as you say, get the old lady to send me an invite, and I’ll
look over it. I could not speak more fair.”
“What you ask me is quite impossible,” said Frederick. “Dine with me
to-morrow if you will, either at my house, where you are, or somewhere
else. I’ll arrange it, and I’ll give you a good dinner, a better dinner
than my mother understands. But I can’t interfere with her arrangements.
I live at home because it suits me, and there is room; but I never
interfere with her guests. My mother has a will of her own. She leaves
me my freedom, and I never interfere with her.”
From this position Frederick would not recede. Batty, stung by the
refusal, furious at himself for having asked, and at his son-in-law for
not having granted, left him at last with a mind on flame, asking
himself how he could be revenged on the ungrateful husband who, no
doubt, had ill-treated his girl and made her miserable. He soothed and
stimulated his feelings by extensive potations upon his drive back in
his Hansom to the little house in Mayfair. He would not spend another
night under that d----d roof, he would get his traps and go to his
hotel, where he was known as a man that could pay his way; the old cat
might stay if she liked, but as for him he would have no more of their
d----d impertinence. But he’d go to the office next morning and expose
the d----d scoundrel, d----n him if he wouldn’t. Thus Batty blasphemed
as his Hansom drove violently to the door of Frederick’s house. He
rushed in and mounted the stairs to the deserted-looking drawing-room,
in which there were lights. “Get me my things together, old woman,” he
cried; “quick, I have not a moment to lose. They’re all a pack of d----d
impudent good-for-nothings. I’ll see Frederick Eastwood at Jericho
before I stay another night in his d----d miserable house!”
Aunty was standing dissolved in tears, with a coloured photograph in her
hand, in a tawdry frame, a portrait of Mrs. Frederick which had been
done before she married, and in which her blue gown appeared to
perfection, if nothing else. She was not alone; another individual, of
whom Batty knew nothing, stood by in a corner, curtseying to him as he
came in. Aunty held out the photograph to him, with the tears running
down her cheeks.
“Look what I found in an old cupboard among the rubbish!” she cried;
“the picture we was all so proud of. Oh, the lovely creature! and them
as got her thinking nothing on her. And, oh Batty, there’s that to hear
as neither you nor me knows nothing about. Look at her, the sweet
darling! She’s been took from us, she’s been murdered! and neither you
nor me knows nothing about it! Sit down, man, if you’re a man and loved
your child. Sit down and listen to what this woman’s got to tell you.
Sit, Batty, don’t be thinking of yourself. Sit down and hear.”
He was at once stupefied and excited by the drink he had swallowed, and
lost in an intoxication of rage scarcely less confusing. The first words
of the tale to which he was thus entreated to listen called up in him a
passion of vindictive grief and misery more potent still. He listened
with muttered curses mingling with his sobs, looking at the poor faded
picture, the simpering image of his daughter who was dead--of his
daughter who was murdered--of Amanda, whom he had loved better than
anything in the world, and for whom he could take a terrible revenge on
the people whom he hated worse than anything in the world. He sat, and
sobbed, and swore, and listened. No suspicion had ever crossed his mind
before--now he felt that this was not suspicion, but certainty. That
girl had done it--that girl who loved Frederick--and by whom vengeance
dire and dreadful could be taken upon Frederick and Frederick’s family,
upon all who had slighted his child and slighted him. I cannot describe
the mixture of real emotion and fictitious excitement, of passionate
grief and injured self-love, of fierce desire for justice and wild
vindictive personal rage which overwhelmed him. It was terrible, and it
was horrible. Jane, frightened at herself, frightened at him, was not
allowed to leave the place where he was; he stayed at Frederick’s house
to mature his vengeance upon Frederick, and he seized upon his witness
who was all-important to him, with a force entirely beyond her feeble
powers of resistance. Jane, poor creature, not meaning so much harm to
others as good to herself, was there and then taken out of her own
hands. The harm, too terrible to think of, too fatal to forecast, was no
longer problematical. She had set the storm a-going, but only heaven
knew where it would end.