“LIKE A MAN’S HAND.”
What a cruel world it is; what a hard, wicked, misjudging, uncharitable,
mercenary world! Thus Heather Dudley reflected, while, without waiting
for Lucy or Leonard, she walked homewards with Lally, the hot tears
filling her eyes and coursing down her cheeks as she recalled Mrs.
Croft’s insulting words, as she came gradually to comprehend the full
meaning of her insolent accusation.
She could not help crying; the world’s cruelty and the world’s
wickedness were new experiences to her.
The maladies of being thought ill of, of having her most innocent
notions misconstrued, of hearing intentions imputed to her which she was
utterly incapable of harbouring, had not fallen to her when young, and
now taken in her maturer years they seemed so severe that it was almost
impossible for her to endure them patiently.
To be accused of toadying any person; that it should for a moment be
supposed she could ever have mentioned the name of her family to Mr.
Stewart, when, lest it might even seem as though she were thereby
preferring any claim to old acquaintanceship on him, she had sedulously
avoided all allusions to her former home, or any of her early
recollections.
“I—I—do such a thing!” she thought; “I pay court to him for his money;
I, who detest money; I, who could live on the merest pittance anywhere
and be happy; and who would rather live on a pittance than mix amongst
hard, cruel, mercenary people; and to imply that I was such a wretch as
to school my innocent child in deceit and affectation. Ah!” she
reflected, softening a little; “it is plain she never was a mother; if
she had been, she could not have imputed trickery of that kind to me;”
which speech showed, not how much Heather knew of mothers, but how
little she knew of the world. “It was cruel, though—” thus the mental
strain ran on—“cruel to imagine such a thing; cruel to express it;” and
Heather would probably have continued making these statements silently
to her own heart, whilst her tears flowed as fast as her thoughts, had
Lally not caused a diversion by stating:
“You walk too quick, ma; you tire me.” Then Heather sat down upon one of
the benches and caught Lally to her; she was ashamed that even for a
moment her own anger should have made her forget the child’s possible
weariness. She had gone on, dragging Lally after her, and the little one
was both warm and tired with the unwonted exercise.
“Are you hot, too, ma?” she asked, trying to push up her mother’s veil,
an attempt which Heather strove too late to resist. “Oh! you’ve been
crying, ma; you’ve been vexed; was it tall wicked lady? Never
mind—Lally’s better—arn’t you glad Lally’s nearly better as well? Do not
cry, pease, mamma—pease—pease.”
And the poor, little, eager face puckered itself up to weep also; and
the brown eyes—which had in them at times a look of Heather—filled with
tears, and the thin arms twined themselves about her mother’s neck, and
Lally became altogether very piteous on the subject of her mother’s
grief.
Looking out over the dancing sea, so bright, so sunshiny, so smooth,
clasping her first-born to her heart, Heather felt that there was reason
in the child’s words; that, seeing Lally’s health even partially
restored, she had no right to weep or lament over any mere worldly
grievance.
What was Mrs. Croft to her, that she should attach weight to her angry
sentences, her slanderous accusations? What were they all—Mr. Stewart,
and his nephew and niece? Nothing but people whom she had met for a day
or two, and should perhaps meet again never more. Why should she fret
over a false and libellous charge? If she were capable of such conduct
as that whereof Mrs. Croft had accused her, she might then weep, but not
otherwise.
She would endeavour for the future to avoid St. Leonard’s. Her children
should keep down by the East Parade, or amuse themselves on the Castle
Hill, for the few days she purposed remaining at Hastings. No one should
say she put herself or them in the way of rich people—at least, no one
should say so with even a shadow of a foundation of truthfulness.
She would not do what she had in the first smart of the blow
intended—pack up, and leave Hastings by the next train—but she would
never subject herself to such an imputation again. She could, and she
would, be out for the future when Mr. Stewart called, and she might walk
at such hours and in such directions as should separate her and hers
altogether from their more wealthy acquaintances.
It is quite unnecessary to add that she and Lucy had a thoroughly
comfortable and exhaustive conversation on the subject that same evening
after the children were in bed; in the course of which Lucy expressed
her opinion, not merely that dear Heather was quite right in her
decision about Mr. Stewart, but also concerning the girls at Berrie
Down.
“We should all be ever so much happier together in town,” the young lady
opined; “together anywhere. Could not Arthur let Berrie Down, or put in
a care-taker, as Mr. Black has so often suggested? not but that it would
seem terrible to leave the Hollow altogether; still, if we are not to
live there, what is the use of having it lying empty?” In reply to which
Heather could only answer: “There is no place in the world like Berrie
Down.” And then the pair had a little sympathetic cry, which did them
both a considerable amount of good.
After all, they had spent a very pleasant month at Hastings; and though
a cloud had towards the last darkened their sky, still who can expect
fair weather to continue day after day?
Is not it the inevitable rule that storms must come, if only to clear
the air; that women should shed tears in order that their eyes may be
all the brighter afterwards? What right had Mrs. Dudley to look for a
succession of sunshiny hours, when Douglas Croft, who was popularly
supposed to be the most lucky fellow on earth, met with nothing but
contrary winds and heavy rains during the short periods in the year he
and his wife reluctantly spent together?
If there were any state of life in which Mrs. Douglas Croft would have
been content, that state had still to be discovered; if there were
anything her husband could have done to please her, he had certainly
never hit upon it.
Did he keep the windows shut, she wondered what he was made of to sit in
such a suffocating room; did he fling them wide open in the morning, he
knew she detested a draught, and the sight of that glitter on the sea;
did he wish to ride, she thought he might have more consideration than
to propose his wife mounting a hired horse; did he suggest driving, she
wondered, if he were so fond of seeing the country, he had not brought
down his servants and carriages, as other people did; did he offer to
walk with her, she was invariably tired; did he even mention leaving the
house without her, she thought, “considering he favoured her with so
little of his society, he might remain indoors for half an hour in the
course of the day; did he go out in a boat, she might as well have
married a London tradesman; did he finally ask her what the devil she
would have him do, since he had come to the slowest place on earth to
please her and not himself, she replied, that if he had not sufficiently
gentlemanly, or even manly, feeling to know how to treat his wife
properly, it was a pity he ever married any one higher in rank than some
poor factory girl.”
“I could not have married you, remember,” answered Mr. Croft, “had you
not first jilted Dudley;” whereupon she sighed, “Poor Arthur!” and
declared “_he_ never would have broken a woman’s heart.”
“You would very soon have broken his,” retorted her husband; “though,
upon my honour, Dudley is the only man I should not have pitied seeing
married to you.”
“Because you admire that creature with red hair, whom he chose after me!
after me by way of contrast, I suppose. Oh! she has not red hair? I
confess I was under the delusion she had; but no doubt your
opportunities of judging have been greater than mine. She is a very
pretty woman, you say; of course you think every woman pretty, excepting
your own wife. She is the kind of creature some men do admire, and she
has that manner—that meek, mild, submissive, milk-and-water manner—which
always makes me long to strike her and ask how she likes _that_. I do
detest those amiable hypocrites. It is a pity you cannot get rid of me,
and marry her.”
“If I were to marry all the women I admire, I should have as many wives
as Brigham Young,” answered Mr. Croft; “besides, I am not quite certain
that Mrs. Dudley is my style. She has too much of the angel about her;
certainly, ‘extremes meet’; but still, after you, that change would be
almost too severe:” and so the pair were wont to wrangle on, while Mr.
Stewart sat calmly reading the _Times_, or else remarked that he never
so much regretted his single condition as when he witnessed his nephew’s
connubial felicity.
“It is all his fault,” Mrs. Croft was in the habit of asserting, to
which Mr. Stewart invariably made reply:
“I know that, my dear Arabella, perfectly well; no wife ever is in
fault.”
“Mrs. Dudley could not be, we may suppose,” Mrs. Croft snapped back, on
the day following her quarrel with Heather.
“If she could, she must differ greatly from the remainder of her sex,”
answered Mr. Stewart, who was, Mrs. Croft frequently assured those lady
friends that she honoured with her confidence, “one of the most
disagreeable, cynical old bores a woman ever had to tolerate for the
sake of his money.”
On the whole, visits from his niece were amongst the number of those
blessings with which Mr. Stewart could very readily have dispensed. He
liked his nephew, and he pitied him; but Mrs. Croft was decidedly _de
trop_ in any house which held at the same time Allan Stewart, Esquire,
of Layford.
Very frequently, people wondered why uncle and nephew kept up separate
establishments, but then it was remembered that more than once Mr.
Stewart had openly regretted the fact of his only near relation having
married a woman whom he never could regard in the light of a daughter.
Of this fact Mrs. Croft was perfectly well aware, and she felt madly
jealous accordingly, when she beheld the increasing intimacy between
Heather and her godfather.
“She will supplant you to a certainty, Douglas,” the amiable wife
remarked.
“Well, my love, if she do, I dare say we can still, with economy, manage
to exist,” answered Mr. Croft. “Upon strict principles of justice,
indeed, I think Dudley ought to have my uncle’s money; I won you from
him, you remember; now, it seems to me, he ought to have a turn. Do not
fret yourself about the matter, Arabella—I take it philosophically—why
cannot you do the same?”
“The same! I have no patience with such absurdity; but I think I have
showed Mrs. Dudley there is one of the family, at least, clever enough
to see what she is trying for.”
“Do you not think it possible for a woman to be too clever,
occasionally?” inquired her husband; “because it occurs to my mind you
have overshot the mark by the merest trifle. My uncle did not know the
touching relation in which he stood to Mrs. Dudley, until you quarrelled
with her. Very possibly he would never have known, had I not, in
consequence of that little flourish up the Marina, told him.”
“You—told him?”
“Yes, my love; I considered it was only right he should know the great
provocation you had received, so that he might not think the slight
coolness between you and Mrs. Dudley originated in any fault on your
side. He quite understands your feelings, and appreciates them fully.”
“Douglas, you are either mad or infatuated.”
“Do not moot the former idea before my uncle, or he may cut me off with
a shilling, and so deprive you of all chance of ever managing his
estates. For myself, I do not care for more money; I am thinking of
going out to Australia, and taking a sheepfarm; of doing the Arcadian
for a few years, during which time you will marry some one else, and I
shall enjoy a bachelor’s existence by way of variety. I am growing
horribly tired of the monotony of civilised life. I wonder if I could
join a mission as a muscular Christian, and go out to convert the
heathen. I should like to see how a fellow with a lot of wives manages
them. I should preach the same doctrines as——”
But at this point Mrs. Croft swept out of the room, and her husband took
advantage of her absence to seize his hat and leave the house, and march
away in a blazing sun to Hastings, where, according to the programme she
had sketched for her own guidance, Heather was not at home.
“I am getting confoundedly tired of this,” Mr. Croft remarked to his
uncle next day, as they lounged together along the Marina; “suppose we
swear business requires our immediate presence in town; cannot we have
letters by the five o’clock post, compelling us to go up by the express
to-morrow morning? Madam in town is bad enough, but madam at a
watering-place, or in the country, is scarcely to be borne.”
“What a choice you made, Douglas!” said his uncle, in a tone of
plaintive rebuke.
“Did I choose at all? I doubt it,” was the reply. “Since my marriage, I
often should have liked to choose; but perhaps, had power been given me
to do so, I might only have made a worse mess of it. The best of a
marriage like mine is, it makes a man so philosophical. It leaves one
nothing to wish for, nothing to desire; jealousy, over-affection,
anxiety about the dear creature’s health; sleepless nights if her finger
aches; torturing doubts if another fellow is over-zealous in finding her
shawls—from all these troubles I am exempt. My domestic life leaves me
nothing to fret about. Like that young man in Longfellow’s poem,—
“‘Light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world;’
only I do not carry two locks of hair about with me and sentimentalize
concerning them, so that in one respect I have an advantage over the
widower.”
“If your wife were in heaven, I do not think you would carry one of her
curls done up in note-paper in your left-hand waistcoat pocket, after
the fashion of a man I once knew,” remarked Mr. Stewart a little grimly.
“Well, now, do you know I think I should,” answered Mr. Croft; “when a
woman is so kind as to die, it seems to me the least in common gratitude
her husband can do, is to use his handkerchief freely, and publicly
preserve little mementoes of her—the stalk of the last bunch of grapes
she ate, for instance, her box of rouge, or the puff wherewith she
powdered her face. To me there is something inexpressibly touching about
relics; most probably because they are useless. I always notice people
admire and reverence things which are utterly useless, that is one
reason I am so fond of my wife. Oh! Arabella; oh, my beloved! there she
stands at the window awaiting my return. Signalling for it, too, by all
that’s wonderful; shall we go and ascertain the cause of that waving
cambric?” And Mr. Stewart agreeing, the pair crossed the road and
entered the house, when they soon discovered the reason of Mrs. Croft’s
anxiety for their return in the shape of a telegram for Mr. Stewart,
which had arrived about an hour previously.
“It is from Dudley,” said that gentleman, placing the paper in his
nephew’s hand. “Nice kettle of fish, is not it? We can catch the next
train, I suppose?”
“What is the matter; what has happened?” inquired Mrs. Croft.
“Nothing, except that a gentleman on our board will not be reasonable,”
answered Mr. Stewart. “He wants talking to, I think. Come, Douglas—that
is, if you are coming with me. Good-bye, Arabella, we shall be down
again to-morrow.”
“Good-bye, my dear,” repeated Mr. Croft. “Comfort yourself, as I do,
that the parting is not for ever;” and the pair hurried off to St.
Leonard’s Station, talking as they went about the telegram, which Mr.
Stewart now tore up into little scraps, and scattered to the wind.
“My mind always misgave me concerning him,” said Mr. Stewart. “I asked
Black specially if he had authority for putting his name on the
direction.”
“It is an old trick of Black’s, I believe, that of using names without
permission,” answered Mr. Croft; “you will see Frank, I suppose, and try
to alter his purpose?”
“Yes, that is why I am now going to town; and I asked you to accompany
me, thinking you would be glad of a holiday.”
“You are very kind. I do not fancy I should have much cared for a
_tête-à-tête_ with madam by the sad sea waves; and Mrs. Dudley refuses
to be at home to me.”
“You can scarcely blame her for that,” remarked his uncle.
“I am not blaming her, only I think it is carrying the theory of husband
and wife being one, a little too far. However, if such be her will, I
must resign myself to it.”
They were standing on the platform at St. Leonard’s as Mr. Croft spoke
thus, and even as he spoke, the train came out of the first tunnel and
stopped to take up its passengers.
“Why, good heavens, there is Mrs. Dudley,” exclaimed Mr. Croft. “Can you
make room for us?” he asked, eagerly opening the door of the compartment
she occupied. “Are you all returning to town? I had not the slightest
expectation of meeting you here.”
“We always meant to return to-day,” answered Heather, after she had
spoken to Mr. Stewart, and the two gentlemen were seated _vis-à-vis_.
“But I thought you were going to remain for some time longer?”
“So we are, unhappily, I believe,” he replied, putting up the window in
order to keep the smoke out of the carriage while passing through the
second tunnel. “I only wish,” he added, as they sped on out into the
sunshine again, “we were not going to remain. I think St. Leonard’s the
most wearisome spot on the face of the whole earth.”
“And we have enjoyed our visit so much!” said Heather.
“But then ladies have resources within themselves of which we men know
nothing,” he answered.
“I cannot agree with that,” Heather replied; “we may have resources at
home, but certainly not in lodgings; and there is one thing you can do
which we cannot—smoke; Lucy and I, for instance, could not have amused
ourselves for a whole evening walking up and down the Parade slowly
puffing cigars, as I have seen you and Mr. Stewart doing.”
“No, but you could let your dresses sweep the ground,” answered Mr.
Croft. “I often fancy that swish-swish of my wife’s train must produce
the same soothing effect upon her nerves as a cigar does on mine. Now,
Miss Lally, you have not spoken one word to me for the last four days,
and my heart is broken in consequence. Will you be good and talk to me
now?” and Mr. Croft put out his hand to the little girl, who came
tumbling over from the opposite corner to make up friends again with her
old admirer, who took her on his knee, and instituted particular
inquiries into the state of her health.
“Was she better—much better—able to run half a mile without getting
tired?”
“Yes,” she declared, “more than ’at; ’ook at mine face; ma says it has
got fat;” and she put up her little hands to her cheeks, and so drew all
the flesh forward for Mr. Croft to contemplate.
“Fat, are you, little one?” broke in Mr. Stewart; “not much of that, I
fear; let me look at you. She does seem considerably better,” he added,
addressing Mrs. Dudley. “You will take her to see Mr. Henry, though,
will you not?”
Heather answered that she certainly should, whereupon Lally insisted on
knowing exactly who Mr. Henry was, and being informed a doctor, declared
she would rather not see him. “Other doctor gave me nasty stuff to
drink, sour, and Lally did not like him.”
“Very ungrateful on your part,” remarked Lucy, “for Doctor Chickton was
exceedingly kind to you.”
“Didn’t like him,” repeated the child, determinedly; “said sour stuff
wasn’t bad to take, and it was dre’ful; said it would make Lally well,
and it didn’t. He told ’tories, he did.”
“Are you glad you are going back to London?” inquired Mr. Stewart.
“No,” said Lally, “don’t like it either. I’d like to go home and see the
chick-a-biddies, and Dash, and Nip and Nep, and the ponies, and Ned;”
and so the child talked on, her eyes dancing with delight as she spoke
of the old home any other little girl might almost have forgotten in the
time, while Mr. Stewart looked thoughtfully in her face flushed with
excitement, and wondered what value his friend, Mr. Rymner Henry, might
set on her chances of life.
Mr. Croft delighted greatly in Lally. He encouraged her to be what her
mamma called naughty, to chatter away at express speed, to tell him all
about Berrie Down, and Aggy, and Laura, “and then there used to be
Bessie, you know,” added the child. “Ah! Bessie was good to Lally. She
singed to her, and dressed the beau-ful-lest dolls; but Lally will never
see Bessie no more—no, never no more;” and the little face began to
twitch, and the lips to tremble, and then the brown eyes filled with
tears, and finally Lally lifted up her voice and wept.
“What is the matter?” inquired Mr. Stewart, who had been engaged in a
conversation with Lucy. “What have you done, Douglas, to cause such
grief?”
“I want to see Bessie,” sobbed the child.
“And who is it that is so cruel as to prevent your seeing her?” asked
Mr. Stewart.
“She is not with us now,” explained Mrs. Dudley. “She was staying at the
Hollow for some months before we left Hertfordshire, and Lally grew very
fond of her. I cannot imagine why she so continually talks about her
now, though; I do not fancy other children have such tenacious memories.
Sometimes for weeks together she will never mention Bessie’s name, and
then she breaks out as you see. I wish she would not do it. It is very
bad for her, fretting so much after any one. Lally, my darling, you must
be patient; whenever Bessie can come to see you, she will.”
“No,” moaned Lally, “no more. Bessie will come to Lally back again,
never no more.”
There was something terribly pathetic about the child’s grief even to
those who knew nothing whatever of Bessie, or of the circumstances
connected with her departure.
“Can’t she come and see the child?” asked Mr. Stewart, a little testily.
“Surely, if she be at all within reach, such a yearning as this might be
gratified.”
“Perhaps so,” Heather answered, “if we knew where she was; but I have
never heard from her since she last left Berrie Down.”
“Did you part in anger then?” Mr. Stewart inquired, true to his theory
concerning women’s quarrels.
“In anger!” Heather repeated in astonishment, “when we all loved Bessie
as though she had been one of our own household! Why she does not write
to me, I cannot tell, only I know she has some good reason for her
silence; and I would rather not talk about her any more, or, perhaps,
like Lally, I shall begin to be foolish and cry too.” An explanation
necessitated by the fact that Mrs. Dudley was crying partly because of
her child’s grief, and partly because she never could speak of Bessie
without a feeling of bitter sorrow.
After that there fell a sudden silence on the party, during the
continuance of which Heather employed herself in adjusting Master
Leonard’s collar, which was crooked to an unimaginable extent; Mr.
Stewart read the newspaper; Lucy looked at Heather; and Mr. Croft, his
chin resting on Lally’s head, gazed out of the window, his thoughts
wandering the while miles, and miles away.
“Do you expect Mr. Dudley to meet you?” asked Mr. Stewart, when the
train had passed New Cross, and was speeding on through Bermondsey.
“No,” Heather answered; “but his brother will be at the station.”
“Oh! he has brothers.”
“Two,” Heather explained; and a few minutes afterwards she was
introducing Alick to Mr. Stewart, who looked on him not ungraciously,
while Mr. Croft stood a little apart, apparently by no means desirous of
making Mr. Alexander Dudley’s acquaintance.
“We are detaining you,” Heather said, at length, to Mr. Stewart; who
remarked, as he bade her “Good-bye,” that he also was going to Lincoln’s
Inn Fields, and should probably arrive there first.
Then she turned and looked for Mr. Croft, who, unable longer to avoid
the situation, now came forward, and assisted her into a cab.
As he did so, Alick, with a sudden amazement, recognised him.
“Who is that gentleman?” he asked Heather; while the object of this
inquiry followed Mr. Stewart into a hansom, which immediately drove off.
“Mr. Croft—Mr. Douglas Aymescourt Croft. Why? Do you know him; have you
ever seen him before?”
“I think I have once,” Alick answered, remembering for certain he had
met that same individual rather more than twelve months previously, on
the Sunday afternoon when he walked across to North Kemms church with
Bessie, and she left her prayer-book behind her in the pew.