Cursed by a Fortune

Chapter Sixteen

“Dead? Dead to you? Pierce, speak to me,” cried Jenny. “What do you mean?”

“What I say. They are a curious mixture of weakness and duplicity.”

“Who are, dear?” said Jenny, with a warm colour taking the place of the pallor which her brother’s words had produced. “Why will you go on talking in riddles?”

“Women. Their soft, quiet ways force you to believe in them, and then comes some sudden enlightening to prove what I say.”

Jenny caught him by the shoulder as he sat in his chair, looking ghastly.

“Tell me what you mean,” she cried excitedly.

“Only the falling to pieces of your castle in the air,” he said, with a mocking laugh. “The marriage you arranged between the pauper physician and the rich heiress. I can easily be strictly honorable now.”

“Will you tell me what you mean, Pierce?” cried the girl, angrily. “What has happened? Is someone ill at the Manor House?”

“No,” he said, bitterly.

“Then why were you sent for?”

“To see an imaginary patient.”

“Pierce, if you do not wish me to go into a fit of hysterical passion,” cried the girl, “tell me what you mean. Why – were – you – sent – for?”

“Because,” replied Leigh, imitating his sister’s manner of speaking, “Mise – Katherine – Wilton – and – Mr Claud – were – supposed – to – be – lying – speechless in their rooms, and – ha-ha-ha! their doors could not be forced.”

“Pierce, what is the matter with you?” cried Jenny, excitedly; “do you know what you are saying?”

“Perfectly,” he cried, his manner changing from its mocking tone to one of fierce passion. “When I reached the place, a way was found in, and the birds were flown.”

“Birds – flown,” cried Jenny, looking more and more as if she doubted her brother’s sanity; “what birds?”

“The fair Katherine, and that admirable Crichton, Claud.”

“Flown?” stammered Jenny, who looked now half stunned.

“Well, eloped,” he cried, savagely, “to Gretna Green, or a registry office. Who says that Northwood is a dull place, without events?”

“Kate Wilton eloped with her cousin Claud!”

“Yes, my dear,” said Pierce, striving hard to speak in a careless, indifferent tone, but failing dismally, for every word sounded as if torn from his breast, his quivering lips bespeaking the agony he felt.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Jenny exclaimed:

“Pierce, is this some cruel jest?”

“Do I look as if I were jesting?” he cried wildly, and springing up he cast aside the mask beneath which he had striven to hide the agony which racked him. “Jesting! when I am half mad with myself for my folly. Driveling pitiful idiot that I was, ready to believe in the first pretty face I see, and then, as I have said, I find how full of duplicity and folly a woman is.”

“Mind what you are saying, Pierce,” cried his sister, who seemed to be strangely moved; “don’t say words which will make you bitterly repent. Tell me again; I feel giddy and sick. I must be going to be taken ill, for I can’t have heard you aright, or there must be some mistake.”

“Mistake!” he cried, with a savage laugh. “Don’t I tell you – I have just come from there? Has not old Wilton hid me keep silence? And I came babbling it all to you.”

“Stop!” said Jenny thoughtfully; “Kate could not do such a thing. When was it?”

“Who can tell? – late last night – early this morning. What does it matter?”

“It is not true,” cried Jenny, with her eyes flashing. “How dare you, who were ready to go down on your knees and worship her, utter such a cruel calumny.”

“Very well,” he cried bitterly; “then it is not true; I have not been there this morning, and have not looked in their empty rooms. Tell me I am a fool and a madman, and you will be very near the truth.”

“I don’t care,” cried Jenny angrily; “and it’s cruel – almost blasphemous of you to say such a thing about that poor sweet girl whom I had already grown to love. She elope with her cousin – run away like a silly girl in a romance! It is impossible.”

“Yes, impassible,” he said mockingly, as he writhed in his despair and agony.

“Pierce, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. There! I can only talk to you in a commonplace way, though all the time I am longing for words full of scorn and contempt with which to crush you. No, I’m not, my poor boy, because I can see how you are suffering. Oh, Pierce! Pierce!” she continued, sobbing as she threw her arms about his neck; “how can you torture yourself so by thinking such a thing of her?”

“Good little girl,” he said tenderly, moved as he was by her display of affection. “I shall begin to respect myself again now I find that my bright, clever little sister could be as much deceived as I.”

“I have not been deceived in her. She is all that is beautiful, and good, and true. Of course, I believe in her, and so do you at heart, only you are half mad now, and deceived.”

“Yes, half mad, and deceived!”

“Yes. There is something behind all this – I know,” cried Jenny, wildly. “They have persecuted her so, and encouraged that wretched boy to pay her attentions, till in despair she has run away to take refuge with some other friends.”

“With Claud Wilton!” said Pierce, bitterly.

“Silence, sir! No. Women are not such weak double-faced creatures as you think. No, it is as I say; and oh! Pierce, dear, he was out late last night, and when he got back found her going away and followed her.”

“Fiction – imagination,” he said bitterly. “You are inventing all this to try and comfort me, little woman, but your woven basket will not hold water. It leaks at the very beginning. How could you know that he was out late last night?”

Jenny’s cheeks were scarlet, and she turned away her face.

“There, you see, you are beaten at once, Jenny, and that I have some reason for what I have said about women; but there are exceptions to every rule, and my little sister is one of them. I did not include her among the weak ones.”

To his astonishment she burst into a passionate storm of sobs and tears, and in words confused and only half audible, she accused herself of being as weak and foolish as the rest, and, as he made out, quite unworthy of his trust.

“Oh! Pierce, darling,” she cried wildly, as she sank upon her knees in front of his chair; “I’m a wicked, wicked girl, and not deserving of all you think about me. Believe in poor Kate, and not in me, for indeed, indeed, she is all that is good and true.”

“A man cannot govern his feelings, Sissy,” he said, half alarmed now at the violence of her grief. “I must believe in you always, as my own little girl. How could I do otherwise, when you have been everything to me for so long, ever since you were quite a little girl and I told you not to cry for I would be father and mother to you, both.”

“And so you have been, Pierce, dear,” she sobbed, “but I don’t deserve it – I don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve to have such a loving little companion,” he said, kissing her tenderly. “Haven’t I let my fancy stray from you, and am I not being sharply punished for my weal mess?”

She suddenly hung back from him and pressed her hair from her temples, as he held her by the waist.

“Pierce!” she said sharply, and there was a look of anger in her eyes, “he is a horrid wretch.”

“People do not give him much of a character,” said Leigh bitterly, “but that would be no excuse for my following him to wring his neck.”

“I believe he would be guilty of any wickedness. Tell me, dear; do you think it possible – such things have been done?”

“What things?” he said, wondering at her excited manner.

“It is to get her money, of course; for it would be his then. Do you think he has taken her away by force?”

Leigh started violently now in turn, and a light seemed to flash into his understanding, but it died out directly, and he said half pityingly, as he drew her to him once again:

“Poor little inventor of fiction,” he said, with a harsh laugh. “But let it rest, Sissy; it will not do. These things only occur in a romance. No, I do not think anything of the kind; and what do you say to London now?”

Chapter Seventeen

“What are you going to do, James, dear?” said Mrs Wilton.

“Eh?”

“What are you going to do, dear? Oh, you don’t know what a relief it is to me. I was going to beg you to have the pike pond dragged.”

James Wilton’s strong desire was to do nothing, and give his son plenty of time; but there was a Mrs Grundy even at Northwood, and she had to be studied.

“Do? Errum!” He cleared his throat with a long imposing, rolling sound. “Well, search must be made for them directly, and they must be brought back. It is disgraceful I did mean to sit down and do nothing, but it will not do. I am very angry and indignant with them both, for Kate is as bad as Claud. It must not be said that we connived at the – the – the – what’s the word? – escapade.”

“Of course not, my dear; and it is such a pity. Such a nice wedding as she might have had, and made it a regular ‘at home,’ to pay off all the people round I’d quite made up my mind about my dress.”

“Oh, I’m glad of that,” said Wilton, with a grim smile. “Nothing like being well prepared for the future. Have you quite made up your mind about your dress when I pop off? Crape, of course?”

“James, my darling, you shouldn’t. How can you say such dreadful things?”

“You make me – being such a fool.”

“James!”

“Hold your tongue, do. Yes, I must have inquiries made.”

“But do you feel quite sure that they have eloped like that?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, thoughtfully; “there’s no doubt about it.”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively. “It seems so strange, when she was so ill and in such trouble.”

“Bah! Sham! Like all women, kicking up a row about the first kiss, and wanting it all the time.”

“James, my dear, you shouldn’t say such things. It was no sham. She was in dreadful trouble, I’m sure, and I cannot help thinking about the pike pond. It haunts me – it does indeed. Don’t you think that in her agony she may have gone and drowned herself?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Wilton, with a scowl at his wife.

“Oh! Horrible! I was having dreadful dreams all last night. You do think so, then?”

“Yes, you’ve hit it now, old lady. She must have jumped down from her window on to the soft flower-bed, and then gone and fetched the ladder, and put it up there, and afterwards gone and called Claud to come down and go hand in hand with her, so as to have company.”

“Jumped down – the ladder – what did she want a ladder for, James, dear?”

“What do people want ladders for? Why, to come down by.”

“But she was down, dear. I – I really don’t know what you mean. You confuse me so. But, oh, James, dear, you don’t mean that about Claud?”

“Why not? Depend upon it, they’re at the bottom of that hole where the pig was drowned, and the pike are eating bits out of them.”

“James! – Oh, what a shame! You’re laughing at me.”

“Laughing at you? You’d make a horse laugh at you. Such idiocy. Be quiet if you can. Don’t you see how worried and busy I am? And look here – if anyone calls out of curiosity, you don’t know anything. Refer ’em to me.”

“Yes, my dear. But really it is very shocking of the young people. It’s almost immoral. But you think they will get married directly?”

“Trust Claud for that. Fancy the jade going off in that way. Ah, they’re all alike.”

“No, James; I would sooner have died than consented to such a proceeding.”

“Not you. Now be quiet.”

“Going out, dear?”

“Only round the house for a few minutes. By the way, have you examined Eliza – asked her what Kate has taken with her?”

“Yes, dear. Nothing at all but her hat, scarf, and cloak. Such a shabby way of getting married.”

“Never mind that,” said Wilton; and he went into the hall, through the porch and on to the place where the ladder had been found.

There was little to find there but the deep impressions made by the heels, except that a man’s footprints were plainly to be seen; and Wilton returned to his wife, rang the bell, and assuming his most judicial air waited.

“Send Miss Kate’s maid here,” he said, sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop. Look here, Samuel, you are my servant, and I call upon you to speak the whole truth to me about this matter, one which, on further thought, I feel it to be my duty to investigate. Now, tell me, did you know anything about this proceeding on Mr Claud’s part?”

“No, sir; ’strue as goodness, I didn’t.”

“Mr Claud did not speak to you about it?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you see him last night?”

“No, sir; I went up to his room to fetch his boots to bring down and dry, but the door was locked, but when I knocked and asked for them he did say something then.”

“Yes, what did he say?”

Samuel glanced at his mistress and hesitated.

“Don’t look at me, Samuel,” said Mrs Wilton; “speak the whole truth.”

“Yes; what did he say?” cried Wilton, sternly.

“Well, sir, he told me to go to the devil.”

Wilton coughed.

“That will do. Go and fetch Miss Wilton’s maid.”

Eliza came, looking red-eyed and pale, but she could give no information, only assure them that she did not understand it, but was certain something must be wrong, for Miss Kate would never have taken such a step without consulting her.

And so on, and so on. A regular examination of the servants remaining followed in quite a judicial manner, and once more Kate’s aunt and uncle were alone.

“There,” he said; “I think I have done my duty, my dear. Perhaps, though, I ought to drive over to the station and make inquiries there; but I don’t see what good it would do. I could only at the most find out that they had gone to London.”

“Don’t you think, dear, that you ought to communicate with the police?”

“No; what for?”

“To trace them, dear. The police are so clever; they would be sure to find them out.”

Wilton coughed.

“Perhaps we had better wait, my dear. I fully anticipate that they will come back to-night – or to-morrow morning, full of repentance to ask our forgiveness; and er – I suppose we shall have to look over it.”

“Well, yes, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton. “What’s done can’t be undone; but I’m sure I don’t know what people will say.”

“I shall be very stern with Claud, though, for it is a most disgraceful act. I wonder at Kate.”

“Well, I did, my dear, till I began to think, and then I did not; for Claud has such a masterful way with him. He was always too much for me.”

“Yes,” said Wilton dryly; “always. Well, we had better wait and see if they come back.”

“I am terribly disappointed, though, my dear, for we could have had such a grand wedding. To go off like that and get married, just like a footman and housemaid. Don’t you remember James and Sarah?”

“Bah! No, I don’t remember James and Sarah,” said Wilton irascibly.

“Yes, you do, my dear. It’s just ten years ago, and you must remember about them both wanting a holiday on the same day, and coming back at night, and Sarah saying so demurely: ‘Please, ma’am, we’ve been married.’”

Wilton twisted his chair round and kicked a piece of coal on the top of the fire which required breaking.

“James, my dear, you shouldn’t do that,” said his wife, reprovingly. “You’re as bad as Claud, only he always does it with his heel. There is a poker, my dear.”

“I thought you always wanted it kept bright.”

“Well, it does look better so, dear. But I do hope going off in the night like that won’t give Kate a cold.”

Wilton ground his teeth and was about to burst into a furious fit of anger against his wife’s tongue, but matters seemed to have taken so satisfactory a turn since the previous day that the bite was wanting, and he planted his heels on the great hob, warmed himself, and started involuntarily as he saw in the future mortgages, first, second and third, paid off, and himself free from the meshes which he gave Garstang the credit of having spun round him. As for Claud, he could, he felt, mould him like wax. So long as he had some ready money to spend he would be quiet enough, and, of course, it was all for his benefit, for he would succeed to the unencumbered estates.

Altogether the future looked so rosy that Wilton chuckled at the glowing fire and rubbed his hands, without noticing that the fire dogs were grinning at him like a pair of malignant brazen imps; and just then Mrs Wilton let her work fall into her lap and gave vent to a merry laugh.

“What now?” said Wilton, facing round sharply. “Don’t do that. Suppose one of the servants came in and saw you grinning. Just recollect that we are in great trouble and anxiety about this – this – what you may call it – escapade.”

“Yes, dear; I forgot. But it does seem so funny.”

“Didn’t seem very funny last night.”

“No, dear, of course not; and I never could have thought our troubles would come right so soon. But only think of it; those two coming back together, and Kate not having changed her name. There won’t be a thing in her linen that will want marking again.”

“Bah!” growled Wilton. “Yes, what is it?” he cried, as the footman appeared.

“Beg pardon, sir, but Tom Jonson had to go to the village shop for some harness paste, and it’s all over the place.”

“Oh, is it?” growled Wilton. “Of course, if Mr Tom Jonson goes out on purpose to spread it.”

“I don’t think he said a word, sir, but they were talking about it at the shop, and young Barker saw ’em last.”

“Barker – Barker? Not – ”

“Yes, sir, him as you give a month to for stealing pheasants’ eggs. That loafing chap.”

“He saw them last night? Here, go and tell Smith to fetch him here before me.”

Samuel smiled.

“Do you hear, sir? Don’t stand grinning there.”

“No, sir; certainly not, sir,” said the man, “but Tom Jonson thought you’d like to see him, sir, and he collared him at once and brought him on.”

“Quite right. Bring him in at once. Stop a moment. Put two or three ‘Statutes at Large’ and ‘Burns’ Justice of the Peace’ on the table.”

The man hurriedly gave the side-table a magisterial look with four or fire pie-crust coloured quartos and a couple of bulky manuals, while Wilton turned to his wife.

“Here, Maria,” he growled, in a low tone; “you’d better be off.”

“Oh, don’t send me away, please, dear,” she whispered; “it isn’t one of those horrid cases you have sometimes, and I do so want to hear.”

“Very well; only don’t speak.”

“No, my dear, not a word,” whispered Mrs Wilton, and she half closed her eyes and pinched her lips together, but her ears twitched as she sat waiting anxiously for the return of the footman, followed by the groom, who seemed to have had no little trouble in pushing and dragging a rough-looking lout of about eighteen into the room, where he stood with his smock frock raised on each side so as to allow his hands to be thrust deeply into his trousers pockets.

“Take your hat off,” said Samuel, in a sharp whisper.

“Sheeawn’t!” said the fellow, defiantly. “I arn’t done nothin’.”

Samuel promptly knocked the hat off on to the floor, which necessitated a hand being taken slowly from a pocket to pick it up.

“Here, don’t you do that ag’in,” cried the lad.

“Silence, sir. Stand up,” cried Wilton.

“Mayn’t I pick up my hat? I arn’t done nothin’.”

“Say ‘sir’,” whispered the footman.

“Sheeawn’t. I arn’t done nothin’, I tell yer. No business to bring me here.”

“Silence, sir,” cried Wilton, taking up a pen and shaking it at the lad, which acted upon him as if it were some terrible judicial wand which might write a document consigning him to hard labour, skilly, and bread and water in the county jail. The consequence being that he stood with his head bent forward, brow one mass of wrinkles, and mouth partly open, staring at the fierce-looking justice of the peace.

“Listen to me: you are not brought here for punishment.”

“Well, I arn’t done nothin’,” said the lad.

“I am glad to hear it, and I hope you will improve, Barker. Now, what you have to do is to answer a few questions, and if you do so truthfully and well, you will be rewarded.”

“Beer?” said the lout, with a grin.

“My servant will give you some beer as you go out, but first of all I shall give you a shilling.”

The fellow grinned.

“Shall I get the book and swear him, sir?” said Samuel, who was used to the library being turned into a court for petty cases.

“There is no need,” said Wilton austerely. “Now, my lad, answer me.”

“Yes, I sin ’em both last night.”

“Saw whom?”

“Young Squire and his gal.”

“Young Squire” made Mrs Wilton smile; “his gal” seemed to set her teeth on edge.

“Humph! Are you sure?” said Wilton.

“Sewer? Ay, I know young Squire well enough. Hit me many a time. Haw-haw! Know young Squire – I should think I do!”

“Say ‘sir,’” whispered Samuel again.

“Sheeawn’t,” cried the fellow. “You mind your own business.”

“Attend to me, sir,” cried Wilton, in his sternest bench manner.

“Well, I am a-try’n’ to, master, on’y he keeps on kedgin’ me.”

“Where did you see my son and – er – the lady?”

“Where did I sin ’em? Up road.”

“Where were you?”

“Ahint the hedge.”

“And what were you doing behind the hedge – wiring?”

“Naw. On’y got me bat-fowling nets.”

“But you were hiding, sir?”

“Well, what o’ that? ’Bliged to hide. Can’t go out anywhere o’ nights now wi’out summun watching yer. Can’t go for a few sparrers but some on ’em says its pardridges.”

“What time was it?”

“Hey?”

“What time was it?”

“I d’know; nine or ten, or ’leven. Twelve, may-be.”

“Well?”

“Hey?”

“What then?”

“What then? Nothin’ as I knows on. Yes, there weer; he puts his arm round her waist, and she give him a dowse in the faace.”

“Humph! Which way did they go then?”

“Up road.”

“Did you follow them?”

“What’d I got to follow ’em for? Shouldn’t want nobody to follow me when I went out wi’ a gal.”

Wilton frowned.

“Did you see any carriage about, waiting?”

“Naw.”

“What did you do then?”

“Waited till they was out o’ sight.”

“Yes, and what then?”

“Ketched sparrers, and they arn’t game.”

The lout looked round, grinning at all present, as if he had posed the magistrate in whose presence he was standing, till his eyes lit on Mrs Wilton, who was listening to him intently, and to her he raised his hand, passing the open palm upward past his face till it was as high as he could reach, and then descending the arc of a circle, a movement supposed in rustic schools to represent a most respectful bow.

“Ah, Barker, Barker!” said the recipient, shaking her head at him; “you never come to the Sunday school now.”

“Grow’d too big, missus,” said the lad, grinning, and then noisily using his cuff for the pocket-handkerchief he lacked.

“We are never too big to learn to be good, Barker,” continued Mrs Wilton, “and I’m afraid you are growing a bad boy now.”

“Oh, I don’t know, missus; I shouldn’t be a bad ’un if there was no game.”

“That will do, that will do,” said the Squire, impatiently. “That’s all you know, then, sir?”

“Oh, no; I knows a lot more than that,” said the lad, grinning.

“Then why the deuce don’t you speak?”

“What say?”

“Tell me what more you know about Mr Claud and the lady, and I’ll give you another shilling.”

“Will yer?” cried the lad, eagerly. “Well, I’ve seed’d ’em five or six times afore going along by the copse and down the narrow lane, and I sin him put his arm round her oncet, and I was close by, lying clost to a rabbud hole; and she says, ‘How dare you, sir! how dare you!’ just like that I dunno any more, and that makes two shillin’.”

“There; be off. Take him away, Samuel, and give him a horn of beer.”