Henry Hindes’ house was the most remarkable in Hampstead. It was
called ‘The Old Hall,’ and was supposed to have been built more than
two hundred years before. It was situated within ten minutes’ walk
of Mr Crampton’s place, ‘The Cedars,’ but the two mansions belonged
to different eras of the world’s history. ‘The Cedars’ was fitted in
the most luxurious style. Everything that money could possibly buy,
or build up, had been added to it, to increase its convenience and
comfort. It revelled in glass houses, expensive out-buildings, swimming
and other baths, and all the luxuries of the prevailing season. But
everything about it was painfully new. Mr Crampton had purchased a
freehold of the ground, and built ‘The Cedars’ for himself, or rather
for the daughter who was to come after him. Often had he said to his
wife that when their Jenny married, they would find a smaller place
for themselves, and make ‘The Cedars’ part of her marriage portion.
Consequently, he had lavished money upon it, letting the builders and
upholsterers have their own way in everything, because it was only
so much more for Jenny, when she came, like a young queen, into the
property her father’s love had prepared for her.
But ‘The Old Hall’ was a very different sort of dwelling-place. Henry
Hindes was a man of refined tastes and culture, a man who, before he
had come into his father’s business, had travelled much and seen the
world of art and science, and cultivated his mind, and raised his ideas
of beauty and workmanship. He hated business and all its details, and,
had it not been for his children’s sake, and the loss it would prove to
them, would have sold his share of it for whatever it might fetch, and
given up his life to the pursuit of his fancy. As it was, he refreshed
himself, in the intervals of less congenial work, by making his home as
beautiful as he could, but in a very different fashion from that of the
Cramptons.
‘The Old Hall’ had low-roofed rooms, wainscotted with black oak, into
which he would not permit the innovation of gas, and ghostly corridors
that ran the whole length of the building, and stained glass windows
which let in very little light, and made the house dark and gloomy in
the eyes of such Philistines as could not appreciate medieval customs,
and the relics of barbarism which made the delight of its owner’s heart.
He was the possessor, too, of an admirable collection of paintings,
mostly of grim and melancholy subjects, but valuable in their way,
and well in accordance with the mummies, sarcophagæ, curious gems and
stones, and other curiosities which he had gathered on his travels and
stored up in remembrance of them. His was a charming household, and
his collection of odds and ends were the only gloomy things in it.
His wife, Hannah Hindes, was a cultured and intelligent gentlewoman,
eminently fond of him, and regarding his powerful brain and capacity
for business with an admiration which bordered on reverence; and he
was the father of three handsome and healthy children, all of whom he
loved, and one of whom he idolised--to wit, Master Walter Hindes, his
only son, an infant of some two years old.
To see Henry Hindes with this child in his fine old garden was to see
him at his best--he was so partial to floriculture, and such a student
of botany; though in this, as in other things, he would not allow
fashion to trample sweetness and commonsense under foot. In the large,
shady garden of ‘The Old Hall’ were to be found all sorts of flowers,
growing together in the same bed. No ribbon borders or collections of
prize begonias, or pelargoniums, of giant blossoms, or dwarfed bushes,
transformed it into the semblance of a nurseryman’s plot of ground;
but sweet-smelling herbs grew amongst the choicer plants, and high and
low bloomed side by side, as they used to do in the long ago.
In the summer weather, Henry Hindes spent almost all his spare time
in his garden with his children, and was apparently quite happy with
his own thoughts and them. Hannah Hindes was a woman who never grated
on her husband’s finer sensibilities. She was loving, tender and
conscientious; but she seldom obtruded herself or her opinions on him,
and never in opposition to his own. She was always there when needed,
calm and intelligent, ready to give advice but not eager to thrust it
down one’s throat; a restful sort of woman for a man to come home to
after a hard and perhaps harassing day’s work.
And she had in her turn an admirable husband, for Mr Hindes was
mild-tempered and indulgent; never found fault with anything his wife
did, or wished to do, and was always quick to think of her comfort and
that of her children.
A few mornings after the dance at the Bouchers’, they were strolling
together under the shade of an avenue of elm trees, which formed the
approach to the house, and he was telling her of his interview with
Frederick Walcheren. One of the little girls, Elsie, was holding her
mother by the hand, whilst the other, Laura, was wandering in front
of them, and the son and heir, was perched on his father’s shoulder,
enjoying a ride. In the length and breadth of England, you could hardly
have found a more united, or happier family.
‘I did not much relish the task, Hannah,’ he was saying to his wife,
‘when Mr Crampton entrusted it to me, for I anticipated a tough battle
with the young gentleman. A man does not particularly care to have a
stranger intermeddle with his love affairs--’
‘Oh! but Mr Walcheren could never look on you as a stranger,’
interposed Mrs Hindes, ‘he must know how very intimate you are with
the family and that you have known dear Jenny almost since she was
born.’
‘Not quite that, Hannah,’ said her husband, wincing, for he did not
like to be reminded that he was ‘getting on,’ ‘but long enough, at
all events, to act as her father’s ambassador. Anyhow, I thought he
would resent my speaking to him, and perhaps cause a bit of a scandal;
but, to my surprise, he took it so quietly and so much as a matter of
course, that I begin to think he was never in earnest, and was rather
glad than otherwise, of an opportunity to withdraw without dishonour.’
‘Then he must be a scoundrel!’ replied Mrs Hindes, with unusual
vehemence for her gentle nature, ‘for I am witness that he behaved to
dear Jenny just as if he were in earnest. I have been with them often,
_you_ know, Henry, when there has been no one else by, and if ever a
man pretended to be in love with a woman, Mr Walcheren did!’
‘Anyone would “spoon” a little, with such a pretty girl, if she gave
him the opportunity, my dear,’ replied Mr Hindes, ‘and our dear Jenny
is a bit of a flirt, you must allow that. I wouldn’t trust her with a
grandfather, if I valued his peace of mind.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “spoon,”’ said Mrs Hindes, who professed
to understand no modern slang, ‘but he looked at her and spoke to her
as if he loved her and wished her to love him, and, if he meant nothing
by it, all I can say is that he deserves a much worse reprimand than a
mere hint to cease his visits at the house. Why, he might have broken
darling Jenny’s heart!’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed her husband; ‘she doesn’t care for the
fellow!’
‘Who can say if she cares for him or not, Henry? Women don’t run about,
as a rule, telling everyone they meet of their predilections for
gentlemen who have not yet proposed for them.’
‘But, good God! do you mean to insinuate that the girl’s happiness is
likely to be affected by this business? You must be mistaken! Jenny
would never be such a fool as to risk losing all her father’s money for
the sake of the first young jackanapes who says he loves her!’
‘She may like the jackanapes better than the money, Henry. I don’t
think women stick at much where their hearts are concerned. Besides,
has not Mr Walcheren a fortune of his own?’
‘Perhaps--I don’t know--unless he has already made ducks and drakes of
it,’ replied Henry Hindes, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
‘But Jenny has never thought of him seriously, I am sure of it! Her
father was telling me only yesterday, that her demeanour has not
changed in the least since he told her she must give him up, but is
as cheerful and lively as usual. That doesn’t look as if she was very
miserable over the loss, eh, Hannah?’
‘Perhaps she does not believe she shall lose him,’ observed his wife.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing particular, only Jenny may derive comfort from looking
forward to the time when she will be of age and able to please
herself. It seems unnatural to me that they should give each other up
so cheerfully, and it is not Jenny’s disposition either. You seem to
forget what a self-willed little mortal she is! And Mr Walcheren is so
good-looking too. I am sure Jenny has positively raved to me about his
beauty. And where will he find such another girl? I thought she looked
more like an angel than a woman at the Bouchers’ on Wednesday. So pure
and sweet and fresh in that white dress, and with those lovely eyes of
hers shining like two stars. Don’t you think she has the very loveliest
eyes in the world, Hal?’
‘Yes! yes! very pretty, certainly; but handsome is as handsome does,
Hannah, and I should be dreadfully grieved if I thought Jenny could be
capable of wilfully deceiving her parents. It would break their hearts.
If you fancy she may be (and you women know best about each other as a
rule), tell me so, and I will warn the Cramptons. It will be my duty to
do so, for they are the oldest friends I possess.’
Mrs Hindes was just about to answer her husband’s query, when they were
both startled by the appearance of Mr Crampton coming up the drive
towards them. There was evidently something unusual about his visit. In
the first place, the old man was walking, a most unheard of exertion
on his part, and, in the second, he would, in the ordinary course of
events, have met his partner in a few minutes in the train, as this
was Saturday, when they made a point of going to the City together, in
order to pay the workmen’s wages, and set things generally right for
the ensuing week.
‘My dear Crampton! what on earth is the matter?’ cried Henry Hindes,
putting down his child, and hastening to his partner.
Mr Crampton’s face, which was always of a fine roseate hue, was now
positively purple, and, from fast walking and agitation, he found it
impossible to articulate. Hannah feared he was going to have a fit, and
urged her husband to get him to the house before he attempted to tell
them what was amiss. Even when he was placed in a library chair, it was
some minutes before he could find breath to speak, and, meanwhile, the
distress pictured on his features was unmistakable.
‘My dear friend,’ said Mr Hindes, with the greatest concern, ‘are you
ill? Is anything wrong at home? For God’s sake, speak, and put us out
of this terrible suspense!’
‘She’s gone, Hindes! she’s gone!’ gasped Mr Crampton at last.
‘Gone? Who? Not Jenny?’ cried Mrs Hindes.
The old man nodded his head.
‘Not dead?’ said Hindes, turning as white as a sheet.
‘No! No! Gone off with that scoundrel Walcheren,’ replied Mr Crampton,
who had somewhat recovered himself. ‘Didn’t you tell me that he
promised to give up all pretensions to her hand, and to leave off
visiting her or writing to her?’
‘He did, most emphatically!’ said Hindes. ‘I was just telling my wife
about it.’
‘And so did she--so did Jenny,’ continued the father, in a broken
voice; ‘and they were both lying to us, sir--both lying! She has left
us for him. She writes she is married to him--that it is of no use our
attempting any opposition, and we may keep our worthless money for
ourselves--and our broken hearts too, I suppose,’ he added, in a lower
tone.
‘But it is impossible--there must be some mistake--how did it happen?’
cried Henry Hindes, excitedly.
‘Well, they must have managed to have some communication with each
other since Wednesday, for the girl joined him yesterday. My wife is
such a fool--God forgive me for calling her by such a name!--that she
never exercised the least supervision over the child, and yesterday
morning it seems that Jenny said she was going to her dressmaker’s,
and they let her set off alone with Brunell. She told him on reaching
town--this is the man’s story, remember--to put up the horses, and call
for her at the Burtons in Cromwell Road, at five o’clock. He was there
to his time, and waited outside for an hour, when a caretaker came to
the door and asked him what he was waiting for. On his telling her, she
said that no young lady had been there that day--that the family was
still out of town, and she didn’t know when they were likely to be home
again. On hearing that, Brunell drove to Madame Costello’s, but learned
there that Jenny had left directly he drove off in the morning, and
had not returned since. A gentleman, her cousin, the woman said, had
fetched her away in a cab. The man came back with this story, and you
may imagine the night we have had. My wife was sure it was all right,
but I knew the end from the beginning.’
‘Don’t despair, sir, until you are quite sure,’ said Hannah, with ready
sympathy.
‘I _am_ sure, Mrs Hindes. We sat up all night, and the first post this
morning brought us that.’
He threw down a scribbled note on the table as he spoke, and Hannah
picked it up, for her husband seemed too paralysed at the calamity that
had overtaken his friends, to be able to do anything. The note ran
thus:--
‘DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--I could not give Frederick up, as you
desired me to do, because we love each other too much, so we were
married this morning at the Earl’s Court Registrar Office, where you
can see the entry if you doubt my word. Don’t be too angry with me.
Remember I am your only child.--Yours affectionately,
JENNY WALCHEREN.’
‘That’s a nice letter for a man to receive, who has idolised his
child for twenty years, isn’t it, Mrs Hindes?’ asked Mr Crampton
sarcastically. ‘Remember she is my only child; indeed, I’m not likely
to forget it, I can tell Miss Jenny that. And I’ll never see her again,
not if I live another fifty years!’
‘Oh, don’t say that. You don’t know what may happen to alter your
mind,’ said Hannah, as she took the old man’s hand in hers and pressed
it warmly. ‘You love her dearly, and she loves you. Things will not
look so black when you are more used to them. After all, Mr Walcheren
comes of a good family, and--’
‘And is a Papist,’ interrupted Mr Crampton angrily, ‘a member of the
faith which I despise and abhor and contemn--the faith which will bring
my wretched daughter down to hell with himself. No, Mrs Hindes, my
dear; you mean kindly, but don’t talk to me of ever seeing this matter
in a better light.’
‘But she is under age,’ said Henry Hindes, speaking for the first
time. ‘How could he marry her without the written consent of her
guardians?’
‘By a lie, of course. He must have sworn she was of age. It came
natural to a Papist, no doubt. They’re made of lies, religion and all!
It’s a proper beginning for a life of deception and ingratitude.’
‘But if the licence has been obtained under false pretences, Crampton,’
said Mr Hindes eagerly, ‘it may not yet be too late to set it aside.
It may be possible to force him to return your daughter to you, at all
events until she is of age. I don’t know the law accurately on this
point, but I can go to town at once and inquire, and if there is a
chance--if she could be returned to you--’
Mr Hindes’ urbanity seemed to have forsaken him at this juncture, for
he trembled so violently that his very teeth chattered.
‘And do you suppose that I would take her back?’ cried Mr Crampton,
vehemently. ‘What! take the casket without the jewel! Receive my
daughter--no longer only my daughter, but that man’s plaything--in
her dishonoured home? Never! I will see her dead first! I will stand
by thankfully, and watch her coffin lowered into the ground, sooner
than acknowledge her again as my child. I have no child now. My Jenny,
in whom I took such pride, for whom I have made money and treasured
and garnered it up, is gone from me. She is no longer mine. She is
Walcheren’s wife. I have lost her more effectually than if she had been
taken from me by death, as her brothers and sisters were, and never, so
help me God! will I see her of my own free will, in this world again.’
He was fuming and raging in his despair, and Hannah Hindes motioned
to her husband, to do or say something to calm the old man. But Henry
Hindes remained as silent and motionless, as if he had been carved in
stone. Then she attempted the task herself.
‘Dear Mr Crampton,’ she whispered, laying her gentle hand on
his knotted one, ‘surely you are going too far. This terrible
disappointment has come upon you too suddenly, but try to look at it in
a more reasonable light. Jenny has done very, very wrong; no one could
think otherwise, but you must not speak of her as if she were abandoned
to sin. She is honourably married, remember; and she is so young, that
perhaps she did not view the fault of rebelling against your authority
from so serious a point of view as we do. Mr Walcheren doubtless
persuaded her that it was only a venial error, which you would soon
forgive, for I cannot believe that she could ever forget your great
love for her, nor hers for you.’
She smoothed the old man’s palm with a motherly touch as she spoke, and
her soft voice and manner served in a measure to soothe his extreme
agitation.
‘You are a good woman, Mrs Hindes, my dear,’ he replied, more calmly,
‘but my daughter must abide by the step she has taken, however this
fellow cajoled her into it. She knew well enough that I would never
give my consent to her marriage with a d--d Papist. She gave me her
solemn promise, too, to give up all communication with him. She lied to
me, Mrs Hindes, as the man lied to your husband, and I renounce them
both--I renounce them both! Henceforth, I have no child. Heaven took
five from me, and the devil’s got the last.’
And with that Mr Crampton drew forth a red silk handkerchief and buried
his face in it.
‘But what is to be done?’ inquired Henry Hindes, ‘what is to be done?’
Hannah glanced round at him in astonishment. His full, deep voice
seemed all of a sudden to have become thin and squeaky.
‘Mr Crampton seems to think that we can do nothing, dearest,’ she
answered.
‘But some sort of reply must be sent to her letter,’ he continued,
‘or she may present herself at any moment in Hampstead. She is very
impetuous, you know, Crampton, and will not easily believe that you can
be seriously angry with her. We must prevent a scandal if possible.
You had better write to her, or see her once, just to come to an
understanding, that you may know what to expect, and she also.’
‘I will never see her, nor write to her again,’ said Mr Crampton.
‘Henry, could _you_ not do so?’ asked his wife, pleadingly. ‘If Mr
Crampton consents to it, could you not first verify the marriage, and
then see poor Jenny, and tell her her father’s decision? Someone ought
surely to do it.’
‘Where does she write from?’ asked Mr Hindes.
‘From the Castle Warden Hotel at Dover, whence they will probably cross
over to Paris. If you follow them it should be at once. Will you go?
Shall I get your portmanteau ready?’
She loved the girl, and cherished a secret hope that, through her
husband’s intervention, a reconciliation might be effected between the
daughter and her parents.
‘I am at Mr Crampton’s service,’ said Mr Hindes.
‘What do you expect to issue from the proceeding?’ asked the old man,
in a muffled voice. ‘I will never receive her back at “The Cedars.”
It is of no use giving her any false hopes, for my decision is
irrevocable. She is dead to me from this time forward.’
‘Will her mother consent to that, sir?’
‘If she does not she must join her daughter, for I will have no one who
associates with Papists in my house. I would as soon cherish a brood
of vipers. But I do not anticipate my wife being so ungrateful as to
desert me in this extremity.’
‘But if Jenny--if your daughter, on hearing your decision, and learning
that it is unalterable, should elect to give up her husband and return
to the protection of her parents--what then, sir?’
‘There is no chance of it,’ said the old man.
‘I am not so sure of that. Our childhood’s affections are generally the
strongest. She may be repenting the step she has taken even now. If I
see her and find she wishes to come home again--what then?’
‘I do not say that, in such a case, I should absolutely refuse to
receive her, but it would be only on the very strictest conditions.
And you would let me know first? You would not bring me face to face
with her without any preparation, for, by the Lord, Hindes, I would not
trust myself to say what I might do in such a case.’
‘No,’ replied Hindes, ‘I promise you I will not act in any way without
your consent. But I will go down to Dover, and see if it is possible to
have an interview with her alone. If Mr Walcheren is present I have no
hopes of success.’
‘Don’t mention the fellow’s name!’ exclaimed Mr Crampton. ‘The very
sound of it makes me feel like a murderer. I can conceive at this
moment nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to squeeze the
last breath out of his vile body.’
He rose to leave then, tottering as if the fatal intelligence had added
twenty years to his existence.
‘Don’t walk home. Let me order the carriage. It won’t be ten minutes,
and then it can take Henry to the station,’ said Hannah, kindly.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ replied Mr Crampton, reseating himself. ‘I do not
really think I am equal to the exertion. To think that a rebellious
girl has the power to sap a man’s strength in this manner.’
‘The news has been a shock to all of us,’ returned Hannah. ‘My husband
looks almost as bad as you do. Henry, you must take something before
you start. Ring the bell and tell Simmonds to bring some brandy and
soda. Your face is positively ghastly. What shall I put up for you?
Shall you stay the night?’
‘No, I think not; but, perhaps, I may. Just a shirt and a brush and
comb, please, nothing more. I am so grieved for the Cramptons,’ said
her husband to her, in a lower tone, ‘so deeply, deeply grieved. This
will break their hearts. I shouldn’t wonder if it were the death of
both of them.’
‘Yes, yes; poor, dear, old people, they loved her so,’ rejoined Hannah,
with the tears in her eyes, ‘and we shall feel it terribly, too, Henry,
when we have time to realise that it is true.’
‘Oh! that’s all nonsense,’ said her husband, roughly. ‘It is of them we
have to think. What can it matter to us? Sooner or later she must have
married someone, and _we_ have no especial antipathy to Papists. But
there is no time to discuss the matter now. Do as I tell you, and let
me be off.’
And in another five minutes the two partners in the firm of Hindes &
Crampton were driving down the elm-tree road together.