Chapter XLIII: The Gathering of the Storm

Some time after the above events, Frederick’s little house in Mayfair--which had been the only advantage poor Amanda had gained by marrying him, and which had been furnished according to her taste, in a somewhat showy, modern fashion, with dashes of ill-considered and ill-fitting antiquity--became vacant. The tenant who had taken it for the winter months gave it up at the end of February: as it had proved a somewhat profitable investment, Frederick, who had a lease of the house, decided on letting it again, furnished. A little more money is never a matter of indifference to a young man with expensive tastes, and he was very willing to add to his income in this way. Before the house was let again, however, it was necessary that all the personal lumber Mrs. Frederick had left behind her should be cleared away. Her trunks, which had been placed in one locked-up room, her knick-knacks, the trifles with which she had filled her drawing-room, had to be put in order, and either restored to their places or distributed to her friends. Frederick found his mother and sister quite adverse to the office of looking over Amanda’s “things.” Her clothes and her finery were objects in which they took no interest, except the pitiful and painful one which now encompassed everything she had possessed. But they would neither accept this melancholy, tawdry inheritance which she had left behind her, for themselves, nor did they feel any inclination to take upon them the office of arbitrators and distributors among her friends. He sent for Aunty in his perplexity from Sterborne. He had sworn to have nothing to do with the family henceforward, but in this strait he did not hesitate. Aunty came up to London on his application, almost by return of post. The dead woman’s finery was all interesting to her. She had a pleasure in trying it on, in estimating its value, in selecting some for herself, in laying aside various articles for other friends. The office pleased Aunty immensely; and as this sad but satisfactory piece of business entailed the necessity of a prolonged visit to town,--where she lived in Frederick’s house “like a lady,” with two maids to serve her, and a room for a friend, and the most congenial occupation--it is not wonderful that she should have regarded it with pleasure. It pleased Batty too that his son-in-law, whom he described in his own circle as being proud as Lucifer, yet acknowledged in this way the existence and the claims of his wife’s family. He sent a friendly message by Aunty to the effect that he himself would soon pay Frederick a visit. He had begun to recover the shock of his daughter’s death. Marriage had already separated her from him, and such grief as his does not resist the softening influence of time and circumstances. Frederick’s “attention” flattered and pleased him,--and Frederick’s family was always something to brag of. Even Innocent’s marriage was a feather in Mr. Batty’s cap,--“My poor girl’s cousin,” he called her. He was most amiable to the Eastwoods, who had showed, he said, every respect to his girl. It was only when any appearance of indifference to Amanda’s memory displayed itself that his violence of grief returned. When some one suggested that his son-in-law would soon marry again, his face clouded over; “Confound him! if he can forget my girl so soon!” he cried; but Frederick’s appeal to Aunty mollified him entirely. “He was bound up in my poor girl, was Frederick Eastwood,” he said after that. And during the winter he had been afflicted with rheumatism, and with brandy-and-water, as bad a form of disease; therefore he had not gone to town, nor put his son-in-law’s friendliness to the test. But the invitation to Aunty opened the door to further intimacy; so Frederick did not intend--but so Batty thought.

It was a disappointment to both of these personages to find that their host was not really their host, and that in reality it was an empty house in which they were sent to live. The table was indeed supplied at Frederick’s cost, and he himself was guiltless of any idea that he was not doing everything that could be required of him; but Amanda’s relations were sensitive. Then, too, the maids were not so respectful as Aunty felt they ought to have been. They judged her, I suppose, as we are all disposed to do, by her appearance, and were not careful to do their service according to the strict measure of their duty. She had expected to go to Frederick’s house to become for the time his housekeeper and virtual mistress of his dwelling--to be supreme over the servants, and have the management in her hands--perhaps to drive out in the brougham which Amanda had told her of; and thus to relieve her heavier labours by a few London sights such as had not for a long time been afforded to her. As for Batty, though he intended his visit to be a short one, he, too, expected to be Frederick’s guest, to see Frederick’s friends, to go with him to his club, and to pick up at least a few names which he could in the future produce among his friends as “cronies of my son-in-law’s.” He had no intention of being hard upon Frederick. He already knew, and had known before Amanda’s reign commenced, that the morality of the young man was far from perfect. If he had discovered new traces of indulgences similar to those he had witnessed in Paris, he would have thought the poor fellow excusable, and would have made every allowance for him. But it was a very different thing to arrive in Frederick’s empty house--to be received by Aunty alone, whose society he did not prize highly--to have a dinner served up to him imperfectly cooked, the maids not caring to put themselves out of the way for such guests--to be shown into a bedroom partially dismantled, and in which no particular preparations for his comfort had been thought necessary. “By George! What does it all mean?” he said. “It means that Frederick Eastwood don’t think us good enough for his company,” said Aunty, who was much galled by the want of reverence for herself shown by the servants. “Well, well,” said Batty, persevering in his good-humour, “I dare say he’s got other things to think of. I’ll set all that right to-morrow.” In his heart he concluded that Frederick’s reluctance to set up house with Aunty was natural enough, but his own presence would alter all that. He put up with it accordingly the first night. He went to look at his daughter’s dresses hung up to air in the best bedroom, and his heart softened more and more. “I don’t doubt now as my poor girl was very happy here,” he said, looking round upon all the fittings of the room which had been hers. They were of a kind which he considered luxurious--as such they had been chosen by _her_. No want of “respect” was visible in this bower, which she had fitted up for herself. He went to his own room after this inspection, melancholy and slightly maudlin, but satisfied, and had a little more brandy-and-water, and concluded that next day he should see Frederick, and set all right.

Next day, however, things were not set right. He went to the Sealing Wax Office, and found that his son-in-law was out. Frederick was no longer afraid of him, and the senility of fear was over for ever in his mind. Before his marriage he would not have dared to be out of the way when a man commanding the secret of his life called upon him; but everybody knew now what a mistake and _mésalliance_ poor Eastwood had made, and how he had been providentially delivered from it. Batty, gradually growing furious, proceeded in the afternoon to The Elms, to call upon the ladies. He saw, or thought he saw, them at the window, as he drove to the door in his Hansom, and was about to enter with familiar freedom as a connexion of the family, when Brownlow stopped him solemnly with a “Not at home, sir.”

“Not at home!” cried Batty, “I saw them at the window. Take in my name, my good fellow. I am not a stranger. Your mistress will see me.”

“My mistress is out,” said Brownlow solemnly--which was true to the letter, as Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly had escaped by the garden door at sight of the visitor, and were now deep in the recesses of the Lady’s Walk.

Batty looked at him like an infuriated bull--his face growing red, and his eyes projected out of his head. “By Jove, sir, you shall smart for this!” he cried in spite of himself.

Brownlow held his ground with all the imperturbability of a well-trained serving-man.

“Not at home, sir,” he repeated, steadily. “Perhaps you would like, sir, to leave a message? My mistress will be in to dinner.”

Batty closed the door of his Hansom with a crash that rang through the whole neighbourhood. He drove off furious. But still, after all the business of the day was done, he returned to the little house in Mayfair, feeling it impossible that Frederick could have the audacity to leave him another evening alone. He found Aunty again by herself, almost weeping over the insolence of the maids, with another careless dinner, indifferent service--altogether a contemptuous mode of treatment. “Hang me if I stand this!” he said, making off as soon as he had eaten his badly-cooked meal to his son-in-law’s club, resolute to find him, one way or another, and “to have it out with him.” Aunty remained behind in equally high dudgeon. She said to herself that “these Eastwoods” must have suborned the servants to be insolent to her. Thus, in the most unconsidered and, so to speak, innocent way did this unfortunate family forge against themselves the thunderbolt which was to strike them almost into social ruin. Frederick had certainly meant to avoid his wife’s relations, but not with any such determined and insolent purpose as Batty gave him credit for; and Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly did, indeed, run out of the house in order to avoid receiving the visit of Amanda’s father, but only from the impulse of the moment, without any concerted plan. And when it was done, compunctions rose within the breasts of the ladies. Mrs. Eastwood accused herself of her fault at dinner on the same night.

“Should you like me to call on--Miss Johnson, Frederick?” she said. “I am sorry that Nelly and I were so foolish. I am sure I have often received people I had as little sympathy with as Mr. Batty. Indeed, poor man, I have a great deal of sympathy with him. Should you like me to call on Miss Johnson?”

“Who on earth is Miss Johnson?” cried Frederick. “Aunty, do you mean? Why should you call on her? She has not any social pretensions, that I know of. Poor soul, to do her justice, she never went in for that sort of thing.”

“Then you think I need not call?” Mrs. Eastwood said, with a look of relief; “I confess I would rather not. Brownlow,” she said, some time after, “you will find a parcel in the library, addressed to Miss Johnson, at Mr. Eastwood’s. Will you take it to-night, or to-morrow morning? Leave it with my compliments, and say I hope to have the pleasure of calling before she leaves town. Perhaps it is better to say that,” added the diplomatist. “Things might occur to prevent our having the pleasure--but it is as well not to offend any one, unless we cannot help it.” She said this without the least idea that anything more than a breach of her own perfect good manners could be involved in offending the Batty family. She had wounded her own sense of right and wrong by avoiding Batty’s visit. It did not occur to her to think what effect her “rudeness” might have produced on him.

The parcel in the library contained a few books, some music, a fan, and a handkerchief, left at various times by Amanda at The Elms. Brownlow grumbled slightly, as he went down-stairs, at this commission.

“If a man is to be kept running of errands all day long, ’ow is ’is work to get done?” said Brownlow. Jane, the housemaid, not generally considered very “ready to oblige,” answered this appeal at once.

“It’s a fine evening,” she said, “and I’d like a walk. I’ll take ’em for you, Mr. Brownlow, and leave the message. My work’s done, and I’m sick of needlework. Don’t say a word about it. I’d like the walk.”

“There’s some one a-waiting, I make no doubt, under the lamp-post,” said Brownlow; and Jane had to bear the brunt of some raillery, such as abounds in the regions down-stairs. She took it very calmly, making no protestations.

“There may be half-a-dozen under the lamp-post, for what I know,” said Jane.

Thus the matter arranged itself with the utmost simplicity. Never did messenger of evil leave a household more unsuspicious. Mrs. Eastwood had as little conception of what was in preparation as had the innocent Brownlow, who would have walked to the end of the world rather than accept this fatal substitute, had he known. But neither he knew, nor any one. The soft spring air caressed Nelly’s face as she looked out from the hall window, wondering if any one was coming, and saw Jane’s dark figure passing through the gate; just as softly it caressed the countenance of Jane herself, on her way to spread havock and consternation. But the girl at the window had no fear, and the girl at the door only an excited sense of importance. Jane had not even any very bad meaning, so far as she was aware. She was bursting with the something which she had to tell; this could not but bring some advantage to herself, she thought; as for the disadvantage to others, she did not realize to what length that might go, or feel that its greatness would overbalance the importance and benefit to come to her. On this point her imagination altogether failed her. I believe, for my own part, that imagination is the first faculty wanting in those that do harm to their kind, great or small.

Just about the same moment Batty, breathing fire and flame, had found Frederick, and was pouring out the history of his grievances.

“Do you ask a man to your house, you fine gentleman, when you’re not at home?” cried Batty. “Lord, I wouldn’t invite a dog, unless I meant him to share my kennel. A miserable, empty place, with a couple of impudent maids--that’s what you call giving your friends hospitality, eh? You invite a gentleman like that----”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Frederick; “I am not aware that I ever took so great a liberty as to invite you.”

“Confound your politeness and your impudence!” said the other: and became so noisy that Frederick left the club, enduring without replying to the abuse of his companion, who, however, gradually calmed down as they emerged into the open air, where there was no one to hear what he said. He told his son-in-law of the affront put upon him at The Elms--how the door had been shut in his face, though he had seen the ladies at the window--and demanded to be invited there, as a proof that no insult was intended. “I don’t care twopence for your paltry dinner,” he said. “Thank God, I can feed myself and all belonging to me, without being beholden to any man or woman either; but hang me if I’ll stand your disdainful ways. If you want to quarrel, say so; now that my poor girl’s gone, you and your stuck-up set are nothing to me. But a man’s honour’s his honour, however you take it. If there weren’t no affront intended, as you say, get the old lady to send me an invite, and I’ll look over it. I could not speak more fair.”

“What you ask me is quite impossible,” said Frederick. “Dine with me to-morrow if you will, either at my house, where you are, or somewhere else. I’ll arrange it, and I’ll give you a good dinner, a better dinner than my mother understands. But I can’t interfere with her arrangements. I live at home because it suits me, and there is room; but I never interfere with her guests. My mother has a will of her own. She leaves me my freedom, and I never interfere with her.”

From this position Frederick would not recede. Batty, stung by the refusal, furious at himself for having asked, and at his son-in-law for not having granted, left him at last with a mind on flame, asking himself how he could be revenged on the ungrateful husband who, no doubt, had ill-treated his girl and made her miserable. He soothed and stimulated his feelings by extensive potations upon his drive back in his Hansom to the little house in Mayfair. He would not spend another night under that d----d roof, he would get his traps and go to his hotel, where he was known as a man that could pay his way; the old cat might stay if she liked, but as for him he would have no more of their d----d impertinence. But he’d go to the office next morning and expose the d----d scoundrel, d----n him if he wouldn’t. Thus Batty blasphemed as his Hansom drove violently to the door of Frederick’s house. He rushed in and mounted the stairs to the deserted-looking drawing-room, in which there were lights. “Get me my things together, old woman,” he cried; “quick, I have not a moment to lose. They’re all a pack of d----d impudent good-for-nothings. I’ll see Frederick Eastwood at Jericho before I stay another night in his d----d miserable house!”

Aunty was standing dissolved in tears, with a coloured photograph in her hand, in a tawdry frame, a portrait of Mrs. Frederick which had been done before she married, and in which her blue gown appeared to perfection, if nothing else. She was not alone; another individual, of whom Batty knew nothing, stood by in a corner, curtseying to him as he came in. Aunty held out the photograph to him, with the tears running down her cheeks.

“Look what I found in an old cupboard among the rubbish!” she cried; “the picture we was all so proud of. Oh, the lovely creature! and them as got her thinking nothing on her. And, oh Batty, there’s that to hear as neither you nor me knows nothing about. Look at her, the sweet darling! She’s been took from us, she’s been murdered! and neither you nor me knows nothing about it! Sit down, man, if you’re a man and loved your child. Sit down and listen to what this woman’s got to tell you. Sit, Batty, don’t be thinking of yourself. Sit down and hear.”

He was at once stupefied and excited by the drink he had swallowed, and lost in an intoxication of rage scarcely less confusing. The first words of the tale to which he was thus entreated to listen called up in him a passion of vindictive grief and misery more potent still. He listened with muttered curses mingling with his sobs, looking at the poor faded picture, the simpering image of his daughter who was dead--of his daughter who was murdered--of Amanda, whom he had loved better than anything in the world, and for whom he could take a terrible revenge on the people whom he hated worse than anything in the world. He sat, and sobbed, and swore, and listened. No suspicion had ever crossed his mind before--now he felt that this was not suspicion, but certainty. That girl had done it--that girl who loved Frederick--and by whom vengeance dire and dreadful could be taken upon Frederick and Frederick’s family, upon all who had slighted his child and slighted him. I cannot describe the mixture of real emotion and fictitious excitement, of passionate grief and injured self-love, of fierce desire for justice and wild vindictive personal rage which overwhelmed him. It was terrible, and it was horrible. Jane, frightened at herself, frightened at him, was not allowed to leave the place where he was; he stayed at Frederick’s house to mature his vengeance upon Frederick, and he seized upon his witness who was all-important to him, with a force entirely beyond her feeble powers of resistance. Jane, poor creature, not meaning so much harm to others as good to herself, was there and then taken out of her own hands. The harm, too terrible to think of, too fatal to forecast, was no longer problematical. She had set the storm a-going, but only heaven knew where it would end.