_SARAH MATILDA COMES TO LIGHT_
Some time after this interview, one day as I sat, sad enough, in my room,
looking listlessly from the window, with good Mary Quince, whom, whether
in the house or in my melancholy rambles, I always had by my side, I
was startled by the sound of a loud and shrill female voice, in violent
hysterical action, gabbling with great rapidity, sobbing, and very nearly
screaming in a sort of fury.
I started up, staring at the door.
'Lord bless us!' cried honest Mary Quince, with round eyes and mouth agape,
staring in the same direction.
'Mary--Mary, what can it be?'
'Are they beating some one down yonder? I don't know where it comes from,'
gasped Quince.
'I will--I will--I'll see her. It's her I want.
Oo--hoo--hoo--hoo--oo--o--Miss Maud Ruthyn of Knowl. Miss Ruthyn of Knowl.
Hoo--hoo--hoo--hoo--oo!'
'What on earth can it be?' I exclaimed, in great bewilderment and terror.
It was now plainly very near indeed, and I heard the voice of our mild and
shaky butler evidently remonstrating with the distressed damsel.
'I'll see her,' she continued, pouring a torrent of vile abuse upon me,
which stung me with a sudden sense of anger. What had I done to be afraid
of anyone? How dared anyone in my uncle's house--in _my_ house--mix my name
up with her detestable scurrilities?
'For Heaven's sake, Miss, don't ye go out,' cried poor Quince; 'it's some
drunken creature.'
But I was very angry, and, like a fool as I was, I threw open the door,
exclaiming in a loud and haughty key--
'Here is Miss Ruthyn of Knowl. Who wants to see her?'
A pink and white young lady, with black tresses, violent, weeping, shrill,
voluble, was flouncing up the last stair, and shook her dress out on the
lobby; and poor old Giblets, as Milly used to call him, was following in
her wake, with many small remonstrances and entreaties, perfectly unheeded.
The moment I looked at this person, it struck me that she was the identical
lady whom I had seen in the carriage at Knowl Warren. The next moment I was
in doubt; the next, still more so. She was decidedly thinner, and dressed
by no means in such lady-like taste. Perhaps she was hardly like her at
all. I began to distrust all these resemblances, and to fancy, with a
shudder, that they originated, perhaps, only in my own sick brain.
On seeing me, this young lady--as it seemed to me, a good deal of the
barmaid or lady's-maid species--dried her eyes fiercely, and, with a
flaming countenance, called upon me peremptorily to produce her 'lawful
husband.' Her loud, insolent, outrageous attack had the effect of enhancing
my indignation, and I quite forget what I said to her, but I well remember
that her manner became a good deal more decent. She was plainly under the
impression that I wanted to appropriate her husband, or, at least, that he
wanted to marry me; and she ran on at such a pace, and her harangue was so
passionate, incoherent, and unintelligible, that I thought her out of her
mind: she was far from it, however. I think if she had allowed me even
a second for reflection, I should have hit upon her meaning. As it was,
nothing could exceed my perplexity, until, plucking a soiled newspaper from
her pocket, she indicated a particular paragraph, already sufficiently
emphasised by double lines of red ink at its sides. It was a Lancashire
paper, of about six weeks since, and very much worn and soiled for its age.
I remember in particular a circular stain from the bottom of a vessel,
either of coffee or brown stout. The paragraph was as follows, recording an
event a year or more anterior to the date of the paper:--
'MARRIAGE.--On Tuesday, August 7, 18--, at Leatherwig Church, by the Rev.
Arthur Hughes, Dudley R. Ruthyn, Esq., only son and heir of Silas Ruthyn,
Esq., of Bartram-Haugh, Derbyshire, to Sarah Matilda, second daughter of
John Mangles, Esq., of Wiggan, in this county.'
At first I read nothing but amazement in this announcement, but in another
moment I felt how completely I was relieved; and showing, I believe, my
intense satisfaction in my countenance--for the young lady eyed me with
considerable surprise and curiosity--I said--
'This is extremely important. You must see Mr. Silas Ruthyn this moment. I
am certain he knows nothing of it. I will conduct you to him.'
'No more he does--I know that myself,' she replied, following me with a
self-asserting swagger, and a great rustling of cheap silk.
As we entered, Uncle Silas looked up from his sofa, and closed his _Revue
des Deux Mondes_.
'What is all this?' he enquired, drily.
'This lady has brought with her a newspaper containing an extraordinary
statement which affects our family,' I answered.
Uncle Silas raised himself, and looked with a hard, narrow scrutiny at the
unknown young lady.
'A libel, I suppose, in the paper?' he said, extending his hand for it.
'No, uncle--no; only a marriage,' I answered.
'Not Monica?' he said, as he took it. 'Pah, it smells all over of tobacco
and beer,' he added, throwing a little eau de Cologne over it.
He raised it with a mixture of curiosity and disgust, saying again 'pah,'
as he did so.
He read the paragraph, and as he did his face changed from white, all over,
to lead colour. He raised his eyes, and looked steadily for some seconds at
the young lady, who seemed a little awed by his strange presence.
'And you are, I suppose, the young lady, Sarah Matilda _née_ Mangles,
mentioned in this little paragraph?' he said, in a tone you would have
called a sneer, were it not that it trembled.
Sarah Matilda assented.
'My son is, I dare say, within reach. It so happens that I wrote to arrest
his journey, and summon him here, some days since--some days since--some
days since,' he repeated slowly, like a person whose mind has wandered far
away from the theme on which he is speaking.
He had rung his bell, and old Wyat, always hovering about his rooms,
entered.
'I want my son, immediately. If not in the house, send Harry to the
stables; if not there, let him be followed, instantly. Brice is an active
fellow, and will know where to find him. If he is in Feltram, or at a
distance, let Brice take a horse, and Master Dudley can ride it back. He
must be here without the loss of one moment.'
There intervened nearly a quarter of an hour, during which whenever he
recollected her, Uncle Silas treated the young lady with a hyper-refined
and ceremonious politeness, which appeared to make her uneasy, and even a
little shy, and certainly prevented a renewal of those lamentations and
invectives which he had heard faintly from the stair-head.
But for the most part Uncle Silas seemed to forget us and his book, and all
that surrounded him, lying back in the corner of his sofa, his chin upon
his breast, and such a fearful shade and carving on his features as made me
prefer looking in any direction but his.
At length we heard the tread of Dudley's thick boots on the oak boards,
and faint and muffled the sound of his voice as he cross-examined old Wyat
before entering the chamber of audience.
I think he suspected quite another visitor, and had no expectation of
seeing the particular young lady, who rose from her chair as he entered, in
an opportune flood of tears, crying--
'Oh, Dudley, Dudley!--oh, Dudley, could you? Oh, Dudley, your own poor Sal!
You could not--you would not--your lawful wife!'
This and a good deal more, with cheeks that streamed like a window-pane in
a thunder-shower, spoke Sarah Matilda with all her oratory, working his
arm, which she clung to, up and down all the time, like the handle of a
pump. But Dudley was, manifestly, confounded and dumbfoundered. He stood
for a long time gaping at his father, and stole just one sheepish glance
at me; and, with red face and forehead, looked down at his boots, and then
again at his father, who remained just in the attitude I have described,
and with the same forbidding and dreary intensity in his strange face.
Like a quarrelsome man worried in his sleep by a noise, Dudley suddenly
woke up, as it were, with a start, in a half-suppressed exasperation,
and shook her off with a jerk and a muttered curse, as she whisked
involuntarily into a chair, with more violence than could have been
pleasant.
'Judging by your looks and demeanour, sir, I can almost anticipate your
answers,' said my uncle, addressing him suddenly. 'Will you be good
enough--pray, madame (parenthetically to our visitor), command yourself for
a few moments. Is this young person the daughter of a Mr. Mangles, and is
her name Sarah Matilda?'
'I dessay,' answered Dudley, hurriedly.
'Is she your wife?'
'Is she my wife?' repeated Dudley, ill at ease.
'Yes, sir; it is a plain question.'
All this time Sarah Matilda was perpetually breaking into talk, and with
difficulty silenced by my uncle.
'Well, 'appen she says I am--does she?' replied Dudley.
'Is she your wife, sir?'
'Mayhap she so considers it, after a fashion,' he replied, with an impudent
swagger, seating himself as he did so.
'What do _you_ think, sir?' persisted Uncle Silas.
'I don't think nout about it,' replied Dudley, surlily.
'Is that account true?' said my uncle, handing him the paper.
'They wishes us to believe so, at any rate.'
'Answer directly, sir. We have our thoughts upon it. If it be true, it is
capable of _every_ proof. For expedition's sake I ask you. There is no use
in prevaricating.'
'Who wants to deny it? It _is_ true--there!'
'_There!_ I knew he would,' screamed the young woman, hysterically, with a
laugh of strange joy.
'Shut up, will ye?' growled Dudley, savagely.
'Oh, Dudley, Dudley, darling! what have I done?'
'Bin and ruined me, jest--that's all.'
'Oh! no, no, no, Dudley. Ye know I wouldn't. I could not--_could_ not hurt
ye, Dudley. No, no, no!'
He grinned at her, and, with a sharp side-nod, said--
'Wait a bit.'
'Oh, Dudley, don't be vexed, dear. I did not mean it. I would not hurt ye
for all the world. Never.'
'Well, never mind. You and yours tricked me finely; and now you've got
me--that's all.'
My uncle laughed a very odd laugh.
'I knew it, of course; and upon my word, madame, you and he make a very
pretty couple,' sneered Uncle Silas.
Dudley made no answer, looking, however, very savage.
And with this poor young wife, so recently wedded, the low villain had
actually solicited me to marry him!
I am quite certain that my uncle was as entirely ignorant as I of Dudley's
connection, and had, therefore, no participation in this appalling
wickedness.
'And I have to congratulate you, my good fellow, on having secured the
affections of a very suitable and vulgar young woman.'
'I baint the first o' the family as a' done the same,' retorted Dudley.
At this taunt the old man's fury for a moment overpowered him. In an
instant he was on his feet, quivering from head to foot. I never saw such
a countenance--like one of those demon-grotesques we see in the Gothic
side-aisles and groinings--a dreadful grimace, monkey-like and insane--and
his thin hand caught up his ebony stick, and shook it paralytically in the
air.
'If ye touch me wi' that, I'll smash ye, by ----!' shouted Dudley, furious,
raising his hands and hitching his shoulder, just as I had seen him when he
fought Captain Oakley.
For a moment this picture was suspended before me, and I screamed, I know
not what, in my terror. But the old man, the veteran of many a scene of
excitement, where men disguise their ferocity in calm tones, and varnish
their fury with smiles, had not quite lost his self-command. He turned
toward me and said--
'Does he know what he's saying?'
And with an icy laugh of contempt, his high, thin forehead still flushed,
he sat down trembling.
'If you want to say aught, I'll hear ye. Ye may jaw me all ye like, and
I'll stan' it.'
'Oh, I may speak? Thank you,' sneered Uncle Silas, glancing slowly round at
me, and breaking into a cold laugh.
'Ay, I don't mind cheek, not I; but you must not go for to do that, ye
know. Gammon. I won't stand a blow--I won't fro _no_ one.'
'Well, sir, availing myself of your permission to speak, I may remark,
without offence to the young lady, that I don't happen to recollect the
name Mangles among the old families of England. I presume you have chosen
her chiefly for her virtues and her graces.'
Mrs. Sarah Matilda, not apprehending this compliment quite as Uncle Silas
meant it, dropped a courtesy, notwithstanding her agitation, and, wiping
her eyes, said, with a blubbered smile--
'You're very kind, sure.'
'I hope, for both your sakes, she has got a little money. I don't see how
you are to live else. You're too lazy for a game-keeper; and I don't
think you could keep a pot-house, you are so addicted to drinking and
quarrelling. The only thing I am quite clear upon is, that you and your
wife must find some other abode than this. You shall depart this evening:
and now, Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Ruthyn, you may quit this room, if you
please.'
Uncle Silas had risen, and made them one of his old courtly bows, smiling a
death-like sneer, and pointing to the door with his trembling fingers.
'Come, will ye?' said Dudley, grinding his teeth. 'You're pretty well done
here.'
Not half understanding the situation, but looking woefully bewildered, she
dropped a farewell courtesy at the door.
'Will ye _cut_?' barked Dudley, in a tone that made her jump; and suddenly,
without looking about, he strode after her from the room.
'Maud, how shall I recover this? The vulgar _villain_--the _fool_! What an
abyss were we approaching! and for me the last hope gone--and for me utter,
utter, irretrievable ruin.'
He was passing his fingers tremulously back and forward along the top of
the mantelpiece, like a man in search of something, and continued so,
looking along it, feebly and vacantly, although there was nothing there.
'I wish, uncle--you do not know how much I wish--I could be of any use to
you. Maybe I can?'
He turned, and looked at me sharply.
'Maybe you can,' he echoed slowly. 'Yes, maybe you can,' he repeated more
briskly. 'Let us--let us see--let us think--that d---- fellow!--my head!'
'You're not well, uncle?'
'Oh! yes, very well. We'll talk in the evening--I'll send for you.'
I found Wyat in the next room, and told her to hasten, as I thought he was
ill. I hope it was not very selfish, but such had grown to be my horror of
seeing him in one of his strange seizures, that I hastened from the room
precipitately--partly to escape the risk of being asked to remain.
The walls of Bartram House are thick, and the recess at the doorway deep.
As I closed my uncle's door, I heard Dudley's voice on the stairs. I did
not wish to be seen by him or by his 'lady', as his poor wife called
herself, who was engaged in vehement dialogue with him as I emerged, and
not caring either to re-enter my uncle's room, I remained quietly ensconced
within the heavy door-case, in which position I overheard Dudley say with a
savage snarl--
'You'll jest go back the way ye came. I'm not goin' wi' ye, if that's what
ye be drivin' at--dang your impitins!'
'Oh! Dudley, dear, what have I done--what _have_ I done--ye hate me so?'
'What a' ye done? Ye vicious little beast, ye! You've got us turned out an'
disinherited wi' yer d----d bosh, that's all; don't ye think it's enough?'
I could only hear her sobs and shrill tones in reply, for they were
descending the stairs; and Mary Quince reported to me, in a horrified sort
of way, that she saw him bundle her into the fly at the door, like a truss
of hay into a hay-loft. And he stood with his head in at the window,
scolding her, till it drove away.
'I knew he wor jawing her, poor thing! By the way he kep' waggin' his
head--an' he had his fist inside, a shakin' in her face I'm sure he looked
wicked enough for anything; an' she a crying like a babby, an' lookin'
back, an' wavin' her wet hankicher to him--poor thing!--and she so young!
'Tis a pity. Dear me! I often think, Miss, 'tis well for me I never was
married. And see how we all would like to get husbands for all that, though
so few is happy together. 'Tis a queer world, and them that's single is
maybe the best off after all.'