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Chapter Thirty One

“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 “pièce de résistance” 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.

Chapter Thirty Two

Jenny had not been seated alone many minutes after the carriage had driven off, dwelling excitedly upon her visitor’s words respecting Kate’s disappearance, when the front door was opened softly, and there was a tap on the panel of the room where she sat.

“Who’s there? Come in.”

“Only me,” said a familiar voice, and, hunting whip in hand, Claud Wilton stood smiling in the doorway.

“You!” cried Jenny, with flaming cheeks. “How dare you come here?”

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “Just met the mater, and she told me how bad you’d been, and that you talked about dying. I say, you know, none of that nonsense.”

“What is that to you, sir, if I did?”

“Oh, lots,” he said, twirling the lash of his whip as he stood looking at her. “If you were to pop off I should go and hang myself in the stable.”

“Go away from here directly. How dare you come?” cried Jenny, indignantly.

“Because I love you. You made me, and you can’t deny that.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the girl, as her cheeks flamed more hotly.

“I can’t help it now. I’ve been ever so miserable ever since I knew you were so bad; and when the old girl said what she did it regularly turned me over, and I was obliged to come. I say, I do love you, you know.”

“It is not love,” she cried hotly; “it is an insult. Go away. My brother will be here directly.”

“I don’t care for your brother,” said the young man, sulkily. “I’m as good as he is. I wanted to see how bad you were.”

“Well, you’ve seen. I’ve been nearly dead with fever and pain, and it was all through you that night.”

“Yes, it was all through me, dear.”

“Silence, sir; how dare you!”

“Because I love you, and ’pon my soul, I’d have been ten times as bad sooner than you should.”

“It is all false – a pack of cruel, wicked lies.”

“No, it ain’t. I know I’ve told lots of lies to girls, but then they were only fools, and I’ve been a regular beast, Jenny, but I’m going to be all square now; am, ’pon my word. I didn’t use to know what a real girl was in those days, but I’ve woke up now, and I’d do anything to please you. There, I feel sometimes as if I wish I were your dog.”

“Pah! Go and find your rich cousin, and tell her that.”

” – My rich cousin,” he cried, hotly. “She’s gone, and jolly go with her. I know I made up to her – the guv’nor wanted me to, for the sake of her tin – but I’m sick of the whole business, and I wouldn’t marry her if she’d got a hundred and fifty millions instead of a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“And do you think I’m so weak and silly as to believe all this?” she cried.

“I d’know,” he said, quietly. “I think you will. Clever girl like you can tell when a fellow’s speaking the truth.”

“Go away at once, before my brother comes.”

“Shan’t I wouldn’t go now for a hundred brothers.”

“Oh,” panted Jenny. “Can’t you see that you will get me in fresh trouble with him, and make me more miserable still?”

“I don’t want to,” he said, softly, “and I’d go directly if I thought it would do that, but I wouldn’t go because of being afraid. I say, ain’t you precious hard on a fellow? I know I’ve been a brute, but I think I’ve got some good stuff in me, and if I could make you care for me I shouldn’t turn out a bad fellow.”

“I will not listen to you. Go away.”

“I say, you know,” he continued, as he stood still in the doorway, “why won’t you listen to me and be soft and nice, same as you were at first?”

“Silence, sir; don’t talk about it. It was all a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t. You began to fish for me, and you caught me. I’ve got the hook in me tight, and I couldn’t get away if I tried. I say, Jenny, please listen to me. I am in earnest, and I’ll try so hard to be all that is square and right. ’Pon my soul I will.”

“Where is your cousin?”

“I don’t know – and don’t want to,” he added.

“Yes you do, you took her away.”

“Well, it’s no use to swear to a thing with a girl; if you won’t believe me when I say I don’t know, you won’t believe me with an oath. What do I want with her? She hated me, and I hated her. There is only one nice girl in the world, and that’s you.”

“Pah!” cried Jenny, who was more flushed than ever. “Look at me.”

“Well, I am looking at you,” he said, smiling, “and it does a fellow good.”

“Can’t you see that I’ve grown thin, and yellow, and ugly?”

“No; and I’ll punch any fellow’s head who says you are.”

“Don’t you know that I injured my ankle, and that I’m going to walk with crutches?”

“Eh?” he cried, starting. “I say, it ain’t so bad as that, is it?”

“Yes; I can’t put my foot to the ground.”

“Phew!” he whistled, with a look of pity and dismay in his countenance; “poor little foot.”

“I tell you I shall be a miserable cripple, I’m sure; but I’m going away, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Oh, won’t I?” he said, smiling. “You just go away, and I’ll follow you like a shadow. You won’t get away from me.”

“But don’t I tell you I shall be a miserable cripple?”

“Well,” he said, thoughtfully; “it is a bad job, and perhaps it’ll get better. If it don’t I can carry you anywhere; I’m as strong as a horse. Look here, it’s no use to deny it, you made me love you, and you must have me now – I mean some day.”

“Never!” cried Jenny, fiercely.

“Ah, that’s a long time to wait; but I’ll wait. Look here, little one,” he cried, passionate in his earnestness now, “I love you, and I’m sorry for all that’s gone by; but I’m getting squarer every day.”

“But I tell you it is impossible. I’m going away; it was all a mistake. I can’t listen to you, and I tell you once more I’m going to be a miserable, peevish cripple all my life.”

“No, you’re not,” said the lad, drawing himself up and tightening his lips. “You’re not going to be miserable, because I’d make you happy; and I like a girl to be sharp with a fellow like you can; it does one good. And as to being a cripple, why, Jenny, my dear, I love you so that I’d marry you to-morrow, if you had no legs at all.”

Jenny looked at him in horror, as he still stood framed in the doorway; but averted her eyes, turning them to the window, as she found how eagerly he was watching her, while her heart began to beat rapidly, as she felt now fully how dangerous a game was that upon which she had so lightly entered. Rough as his manner was, she could not help feeling that it was genuine in its respect for her, though all the same she felt alarmed; but directly after, the dread passed away in a feeling of relief, and a look of malicious glee made her eyes flash, as she saw her brother coming along the road.

But the flash died out, and in repentance for her wish that Pierce might pounce suddenly upon the intruder, she said, quickly:

“Mr Wilton, don’t stop here; go – go, please, directly. Here’s my brother coming.”

She blushed, and felt annoyed directly after, angry with herself and angry at her lame words, the more so upon Claud bursting out laughing.

“Not he,” cried the lad. “You said that to frighten me.”

“No, indeed; pray go. He will be so angry,” she cried.

“I don’t care, so long as you are not.”

“But I am,” she cried, “horribly angry.”

“You don’t look it. I never saw you seem so pretty before.”

“But he is close here, and – and, and I am so ill – it will make me worse. Pray, pray, go.”

“I say, do you mean that?” he said, eagerly. “If I thought you really did, I’d – ”

“You insolent dog! How dare you?” roared Pierce, catching him by the collar and forcing him into the room. “You dare to come here and insult my sister like this!”

“Who has insulted her?” cried Claud, hotly.

“You, sir. It is insufferable. How dare you come here?”

“Gently, doctor,” said Claud, coolly; “mind what you are saying.”

“Why are you here, sir?”

“Come to see how your sister was.”

“What is it to you, puppy? Leave the house,” cried, Pierce, snatching the hunting whip from the young man’s hand, “or I’ll flog you as you deserve.”

“No, you won’t,” said Claud, looking him full in the eyes, with his lips tightening together. “You can’t be such a coward before her, and upset her more. Ask her if I’ve insulted her.”

“No, no, indeed, Pierce; Mr Wilton has been most kind and gentlemanly – more so than I could have expected,” stammered Jenny, in fear.

“Gentlemanly,” cried Pierce scornfully. “Then it is by your invitation he is here. Oh, shame upon you.”

“No, it isn’t,” cried Claud stoutly. “She didn’t know I was coming, and when I did come she ordered me off – so now then.”

“Then leave this house.”

“No, I won’t, till I’ve said what I’ve got to say; so put down that whip before you hurt somebody, more, perhaps, than you will me. You’re not her father.”

“I stand in the place of her father, sir, and I order you to go.”

“Look here, Doctor, don’t forget that you are a gentleman, please, and that I’m one, too.”

“A gentleman!” cried Pierce angrily, “and dare to come here in my absence and insult my sister!”

“It isn’t insulting her to come and tell her how sorry I am she has been ill.”

“A paltry lie and subterfuge!” cried Pierce.

“No, it isn’t either of them, but the truth, and I don’t care whether you’re at home, Doctor, or whether you’re out I came here to tell her outright, like a man, that I love her; and I don’t care what you say or do, I shall go on loving her, in spite of you or a dozen brothers. – Now give me my whip.”

His brave outspoken way took Pierce completely aback, and the whip was snatched from his hand, Claud standing quietly swishing it round and round till he held the point in his fingers, looking hard at Jenny the while.

“There,” he said, “I don’t mean to quarrel; I’m going now. Good-bye, Jenny; I mean it all, every word, and I hope you’ll soon be better. There,” he said, facing round to Leigh. “I shan’t offer to shake hands, because I know that you won’t but when you like I will. You hate me now, like some of your own poisons, because you think I’m after Cousin Kate, but you needn’t. There, you needn’t flinch; I’m not blind. I smelt that rat precious soon. She never cared for me, and I never cared for her, and you may marry her and have her fortune if you can find her, for anything I’ll ever do to stop it – so there.”

He nodded sharply, stuck his hat defiantly on his head, and marched out, leaving Pierce Leigh half stunned by his words; and the next minute they heard him striding down the road, leaving brother and sister gazing at each other with flashing eyes.