WITH this bitter reply Wheeler retired precipitately; the shaft pierced but one bosom; for the devoted wife, with the swift ingenuity of woman's love, had put both her hands right over her husband's ears that he might hear no more insults.
Sir Charles very nearly had a fit; but his wife loosened his neckcloth, caressed his throbbing head, and applied eau-de-Cologne to his nostrils. He got better, but felt dizzy for about an hour. She made him come into her room and lie down; she hung over him, curling as a vine and light as a bird, and her kisses lit softly as down upon his eyes, and her words of love and pity murmured music in his ears till he slept, and that danger passed.
For a day or two after this both Sir Charles and Lady Bassett avoided the unpleasant subject. But it had to be faced; so Mr. Oldfield was summoned to Huntercombe, and all engagements given up for the day, that he might dine alone with them and talk the matter over.
Sir Charles thought he could justify; but when it came to the point he could only prove that Richard had done several ungentleman-like things of a nature a stout jury would consider trifles.
Mr. Oldfield said of course they must enter an appearance; and, this done, the wisest course would be to let him see Wheeler, and try to compromise the suit. “It will cost you a thousand pounds, Sir Charles, I dare say; but if it teaches you never to write of an enemy or to an enemy without showing your lawyer the letter first, the lesson will be cheap. Somebody in the Bible says, 'Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!' I say, 'Oh, that he would write a letter—without consulting his solicitor.”
It was Lady Bassett's cue now to make light of troubles. “What does it matter, Mr. Oldfield? All they want is money. Yes, offer them a thousand pounds to leave him in peace.”
So next day Mr. Oldfield called on Wheeler, all smiles and civility, and asked him if he did not think it a pity cousins should quarrel before the whole county.
“A great pity,” said Wheeler. “But my client has no alternative. No gentleman in the county would speak to him if he sat quiet under such contumely.”
After beating about the bush the usual time, Oldfield said that Sir Charles was hungry for litigation, but that Lady Bassett was averse to it. “In short, Mr. Wheeler, I will try and get Mr. Bassett a thousand pounds to forego this scandal.”
“I will consult him, and let you know,” said Wheeler. “He happens to be in the town.”
Oldfield called again in an hour. Wheeler told him a thousand pounds would be accepted, with a written apology.
Oldfield shook his head. “Sir Charles will never write an apology: right or wrong, he is too sincere in his conviction.”
“He will never get a jury to share it.”
“You must not be too sure of that. You don't know the defense.”
Oldfield said this with a gravity which did him credit.
“Do you know it yourself?” said the other keen hand.
Mr. Oldfield smiled haughtily, but said nothing. Wheeler had hit the mark.
“By the by,” said the latter, “there is another little matter. Sir Charles assaulted me for doing my duty to my client. I mean to sue him. Here is the writ; will you accept service?”
“Oh, certainly, Mr. Wheeler and I am glad to find you do not make a habit of serving writs on gentlemen in person.”
“Of course not. I did it on a single occasion, contrary to my own wish, and went in person—to soften the blow—instead of sending my clerk.”
After this little spar, the two artists in law bade each other farewell with every demonstration of civility.
Sir Charles would not apologize.
The plaintiff filed his declaration.
The defendant pleaded not guilty, but did not disclose a defense. The law allows a defendant in libel this advantage.
Plaintiff joined issue, and the trial was set down for the next assizes.
Sir Charles was irritated, but nothing more. Lady Bassett, with a woman's natural shrinking from publicity, felt it more deeply. She would have given thousands of her own money to keep the matter out of court. But her very terror of Richard Bassett restrained her. She was always thinking about him, and had convinced herself he was the ablest villain in the wide world; and she thought to herself, “If, with his small means, he annoys Charles so, what would he do if I were to enrich him? He would crush us.”
As the trial drew near she began to hover about Sir Charles in his study, like an anxious hen. The maternal yearnings were awakened in her by marriage, and she had no child; so her Charles in trouble was husband and child.
Sometimes she would come in and just kiss his forehead, and run out again, casting back a celestial look of love at the door, and, though it was her husband she had kissed, she blushed divinely. At last one day she crept in and said, very timidly, “Charles dear, the anonymous letter—is not that an excuse for libeling him—as they call telling the truth?”
“Why, of course it is. Have you got it?”
“Dearest, the brave lady took it away.”
“The brave lady! Who is that?”
“Why, the lady that came with Mr. Oldfield and pleaded your cause with papa—oh, so eloquently! Sometimes when I think of it now I feel almost jealous. Who is she?”
“From what you have always told me, I think it was the Sister of Charity who nursed me.”
“You silly thing, she was no Sister of Charity; that was only put on. Charles, tell me the truth. What does it matternow?It was some lady who loved you.”
“Loved me, and set her wits to work to marry me to you?”
“Women's love is so disinterested—sometimes.”
“No, no; she told me she was a sister of—, and no doubt that is the truth.”
“A sister of whom?”
“No matter: don't remind me of the past; it is odious to me; and, on second thoughts, rather than stir up all that mud, it would be better not to use the anonymous letter, even if you could get it again.”
Lady Bassett begged him to take advice on that; meantime she would try to get the letter, and also the evidence that Richard Bassett wrote it.
“I see no harm in that,” said Sir Charles; “only confine your communication to Mr. Oldfield. I will not have you speaking or writing to a woman I don't know: and the more I think of her conduct the less I understand it.”
“There are people who do good by stealth,” suggested Bella timidly.
“Fiddledeedee!” replied Sir Charles; “you are a goose—I mean an angel.”
Lady Bassett complied with the letter, but, goose or not, evaded the spirit of Sir Charles's command with considerable dexterity.
“DEAR MR. OLDFIELD—You may guess what trouble I am in. Sir Charles will soon have to appear in open court, and be talked against by some great orator. That anonymous letter Mr. Bassett wrote me was very base, and is surely some justification of the violent epithets my dear husband, in an unhappy moment of irritation, has applied to him. The brave lady has it. I am sure she will not refuse to send it me. I wish I dare ask her to give it me with her own hand; but I must not, I suppose. Pray tell her how unhappy I am, and perhaps she will favor us with a word of advice as well as the letter.
“I remain, yours faithfully,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
This letter was written at the brave lady; and Mr. Oldfield did what was expected, he sent Miss Somerset a copy of Lady Bassett's letter, and some lines in his own hand, describing Sir Charles's difficulty in a more businesslike way.
In due course Miss Somerset wrote him back that she was in the country, hunting, at no very great distance from Huntercombe Hall; she would sent up to town for her desk; the letter would be there, if she had kept it at all.
Oldfield groaned at this cool conjecture, and wrote back directly, urging expedition.
This produced an effect that he had not anticipated.
One morning Lord Harrowdale's foxhounds met at a large covert, about five miles from Huntercombe, and Sir Charles told Lady Bassett she must ride to cover.
“Yes, dear. Charles, love, I have no spirit to appear in public. We shall soon have publicity enough.”
“That is my reason. I have not done nor said anything I am ashamed of, and you will meet the county on this and on every public occasion.”
“I obey,” said Bella.
“And look your best.”
“I will, dearest.”
“And be in good spirits.”
“Must I?”
“Yes.”
“I will try. Oh!—oh!—oh!”
“Why, you poor-spirited little goose! Dry your eyes this moment.”
“There. Oh!”
“And kiss me.”
“There. Ah! kissing you is a great comfort.”
“It is one you are particularly welcome to. Now run away and put on your habit. I'll have two grooms out; one with a fresh horse for me, and one to look after you.”
“Oh, Charles! Pray don't make me hunt.”
“No, no. Not so tyrannical as that; hang it all!”
“Do you know what I do while you are hunting? I pray all the time that you may not get a fall and be hurt; and I pray God to forgive you and all the gentlemen for your cruelty in galloping with all those dogs after one poor little inoffensive thing, to hunt it and kill it—kill it twice, indeed; once with terror, and then over again with mangling its poor little body.”
“This is cheerful,” said Sir Charles, rather ruefully. “We cannot all be angels, like you. It is a glorious excitement. There! you are too good for this world; I'll let you off going.”
“Oh no, dear. I won't be let off, now I know your wish. Only I beg to ride home as soon as the poor thing runs away. You wouldn't get me out of the thick covers if I were a fox. I'd run round and round, and call on all my acquaintances to set them running.”
As she said this her eyes turned toward each other in a peculiar way, and she looked extremely foxy; but the look melted away directly.
The hounds met, and Lady Bassett, who was still the beauty of the county, was surrounded by riders at first; but as the hounds began to work, and every now and then a young hound uttered a note, they cantered about, and took up different posts, as experience suggested.
At last a fox was found at the other end of the cover, and away galloped the hunters in that direction, all but four persons, Lady Bassett, and her groom, who kept respectfully aloof, and a lady and gentleman who had reined their horses up on a rising ground about a furlong distant.
Lady Bassett, thus left alone, happened to look round, and saw the lady level an opera-glass toward her and look through it.
As a result of this inspection the lady cantered toward her. She was on a chestnut gelding of great height and bone, and rode him as if they were one, so smoothly did she move in concert with his easy, magnificent strides.
When she came near Lady Bassett she made a little sweep and drew up beside her on the grass.
There was no mistaking that tall figure and commanding face. It was the brave lady. Her eyes sparkled; her cheek was slightly colored with excitement; she looked healthier and handsomer than ever, and also more feminine, for a reason the sagacious reader may perhaps discern if he attends to the dialogue.
“So,”said she, without bowing or any other ceremony, “that little rascal is troubling you again.”
Lady Bassett colored and panted, and looked lovingly at her, before she could speak. At last she said, “Yes; and you have come to help us again.”
“Well, the lawyer said there was no time to lose; so I have brought you the anonymous letter.”
“Oh, thank you, madam, thank you.”
“But I'm afraid it will be of no use unless you can prove Mr. Bassett wrote it. It is in a disguised hand.”
“But you found him out by means of another letter.”
“Yes; but I can't give you that other letter to have it read in a court of law, because—Do you see that gentleman there?”
“Yes.”
“That is Marsh.”
“Oh, is it?”
“He is a fool; but I am going to marry him. I have been very ill since I saw you, and poor Marsh nursed me. Talk of women nurses! If ever you are ill in earnest, as I was, write to me, and I'll send you Marsh. Oh, I have no words to tell you his patience, his forbearance, his watchfulness, his tenderness to a sick woman. It is no use—I must marry him; and I could have no letter published that would give him pain.”
“Of course not. Oh, madam, do you think I am capable of doing anything that would give you pain, or dear Mr. Marsh either?”
“No, no; you are a good woman.”
“Not half so good as you are.”
“You don't know what you are saying.”
“Oh yes, I do.”
“Then I say no more; it is rude to contradict. Good-by, Lady Bassett.”
“Must you leave me so soon? Will you not visit us? May I not know the name of so good a friend?”
“Next week I shall beMrs. Marsh.”
“And you will give me the great pleasure of having you at my house—you and your husband?”
The lady showed some agitation at this—an unusual thing for her. She faltered: “Some day, perhaps, if I make him as good a wife as I hope to. What a lady you are! Vulgar people are ashamed to be grateful; but you are a born lady. Good-by, before I make a fool of myself; and they are all coming this way, by the dogs' music.”
“Won't you kiss me, after bringing me this?”
“Kiss you?” and she opened her eyes.
“If you please,” said Lady Bassett, bending toward her, with eyes full of gratitude and tenderness.
Then the other woman took her by the shoulders, and plunged her great gray orbs into Bella's.
They kissed each other.
At that contact the stranger seemed to change her character all in a moment. She strained Bella to her bosom and kissed her passionately, and sobbed out, wildly, “O God! you are good to sinners. This is the happiest hour of my life—it is a forerunner. Bless you, sweet dove of innocence! You will be none the worse, and I am all the better—Ah! Sir Charles. Not one word about me to him.”
And with these words, uttered with sudden energy, she spurred her great horse, leaped the ditch, and burst through the dead hedge into the wood, and winded out of sight among the trees.
Sir Charles came up astonished. “Why, who was that?”
Bella's eyes began to rove, as I have before described; but she replied pretty promptly, “The brave lady herself; she brought me the anonymous letter for your defense.”
“Why, how came she to know about it?”
“She did not tell me that. She was in a great hurry. Her fiance was waiting for her.”
“Was it necessary to kiss her in the hunting-field?” said Sir Charles, with something very like a frown.
“I'd kiss the whole field, grooms and all, if they did you a great service, as that dear lady has,” said Bella. The words were brave, but the accent piteous.
“You are excited, Bella. You had better ride home,” said Sir Charles, gently enough, but moodily.
“Thank you, Charles,” said Bella, glad to escape further examination about this mysterious lady. She rode home accordingly. There she found Mr. Oldfield, and showed him the anonymous letter.
He read it, and said it was a defense, but a disagreeable one. “Suppose he says he wrote it, and the facts were true?”
“But I don't think he will confess it. He is not a gentleman. He is very untruthful. Can we not make this a trap to catch him, sir?Hehas no scruples.”
Oldfield looked at her in some surprise at her depth.
“We must get hold of his handwriting,” said he. “We must ransack the local banks; find his correspondents.”
“Leave all that to me,” said Lady Bassett, in a low voice.
Mr. Oldfield thought he might as well please a beautiful and lovingwoman, if he could; so he gave her something to do for her husband.“Very well; collect all the materials of comparison you can—letters,receipts, etc. Meantime I will retain the two principal experts inLondon, and we will submit your materials to them the night before thetrial.”
Lady Bassett, thus instructed, drove to all the banks, but found no clerk acquainted with Mr. Bassett's handwriting. He did not bank with anybody in the county.
She called on several persons she thought likely to possess letters or other writings of Richard Bassett. Not a scrap.
Then she began to fear. The case looked desperate.
Then she began to think. And she thought very hard indeed, especially at night.
In the dead of night she had an idea. She got up, and stole from her husband's side, and studied the anonymous letter.
Next day she sat down with the anonymous letter on her desk, and blushed, and trembled, and looked about like some wild animal scared. She selected from the anonymous letter several words—“character, abused, Sir, Charles, Bassett, lady, abandoned, friend, whether, ten, slanderer” etc.—and wrote them on a slip of paper. Then she locked up the anonymous letter. Then she locked the door. Then she sat down to a sheet of paper, and, after some more wild and furtive glances all around, she gave her whole mind to writing a letter.
And to whom did she write, think you?
To Richard Bassett.
“MR. BASSETT—I am sure both yourself and my husband will suffer in public estimation, unless some friend comes between you, and this unhappy lawsuit is given up.
“Do not think me blind nor presumptuous; Sir Charles, when he wrote that letter, had reason to believe you had done him a deep injury by unfair means. Many will share that opinion if this cause is tried. You are his cousin, and his heir at law. I dread to see an unhappy feud inflamed by a public trial. Is there no personal sacrifice by which I can compensate the affront you have received, without compromising Sir Charles Bassett's veracity, who is the soul of honor?
“I am, yours obediently,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
She posted this letter, and Richard Bassett had no sooner received it than he mounted his horse and rode to Wheeler's with it.
That worthy's eyes sparkled. “Capital!” said he. “We must draw her on, and write an answer that will read well in court.”
He concocted an epistle just the opposite of what Richard Bassett, left to himself, would have written. Bassett copied, and sent it as his own.
“LADY BASSETT—I thank you for writing to me at this moment, when I am weighed down by slander. Your own character stands so high that you would not deign to write to me if you believed the abuse that has been lavished on me. With you I deplore this family feud. It is not of my seeking; and as for this lawsuit, it is one in which the plaintiff is really the defendant. Sir Charles has written a defamatory letter, which has closed every house in this county to his victim. If, as I now feel sure, you disapprove the libel, pray persuade him to retract it. The rest our lawyers can settle,
“Yours very respectfully,
“RICHARD BASSETT.”
When Lady Bassett read this, she saw she had an adroit opponent. Yet she wrote again:
“MR. BASSETT—There are limits to my influence with Sir Charles. I have no power to make him say one word against his convictions.
“But my lawyer tells me you seek pecuniary compensation for an affront. I offer you, out of my own means, which are ample, that which you seek—offer it freely and heartily; and I honestly think you had better receive it from me than expose yourself to the risks and mortifications of a public trial.
“I am, yours obediently,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
“LADY BASSETT—You have fallen into a very natural error. It is true I sue Sir Charles Bassett for money; but that is only because the law allows me my remedy in no other form. What really brings me into court is the defense of my injured honor. How do you meet me? You say, virtually, 'Never mind your character: here is money.' Permit me to decline it on such terms.
“A public insult cannot be cured in private.
“Strong in my innocence, and my wrongs, I court what you call the risks of a public trial.
“Whatever the result,youhave played the honorable and womanly part of peacemaker; and it is unfortunate for your husband that your gentle influence is limited by his vanity, which perseveres in a cruel slander, instead of retracting it while there is yet time.
“I am, madam, yours obediently,
“RICHARD BASSETT.”
“MR. BASSETT—I retire from a correspondence which appears to be useless, and might, if prolonged, draw some bitter remark from me, as it has from you.
“After the trial, which you court and I deprecate, you will perhaps review my letters with a more friendly eye.
“I am, yours obediently,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
In this fencing-match between a lawyer and a lady each gained an advantage. The lawyer's letters, as might have been expected, were the best adapted to be read to a jury; but the lady, subtler in her way, obtained, at a small sacrifice, what she wanted, and that without raising the slightest suspicion of her true motive in the correspondence.
She announced her success to Mr. Oldfield; but, in the midst of it, she quaked with terror at the thought of what Sir Charles would say to her for writing to Mr. Bassett at all.
She now, with the changeableness of her sex, hoped and prayed Mr. Bassett would admit the anonymous letter, and so all her subtlety and pains prove superfluous.
Quaking secretly, but with a lovely face and serene front, she took her place at the assizes, before the judge, and got as near him as she could.
The court was crowded, and many ladies present.
Bassett v. Bassettwas called in a loud voice; there was a hum of excitement, then a silence of expectation, and the plaintiff's counsel rose to address the jury.
“MAY it please your Lordship: Gentlemen of the Jury—The plaintiff in this case is Richard Bassett, Esquire, the direct and lineal representative of that old and honorable family, whose monuments are to be seen in several churches in this county, and whose estates are the largest, I believe, in the county. He would have succeeded, as a matter of course, to those estates, but for an arrangement made only a year before he was born, by which, contrary to nature and justice, he was denuded of those estates, and they passed to the defendant. The defendant is nowise to blame for that piece of injustice; but he profits by it, and it might be expected that his good fortune would soften his heart toward his unfortunate relative. I say that if uncommon tenderness might be expected to be shown by anybody to this deserving and unfortunate gentleman, it would be by Sir Charles Bassett, who enjoys his cousin's ancestral estates, and can so well appreciate what that cousin has lost by no fault of his own.”
“Hear! hear!”
“Silence in the court!”
The Judge.—I must request that there may be no manifestation of feeling.
Counsel.—I will endeavor to provoke none, my lord. It is a very simple case, and I shall not occupy you long. Well, gentlemen, Mr. Bassett is a poor man, by no fault of his; but if he is poor, he is proud and honorable. He has met the frowns of fortune like a gentleman—like a man. He has not solicited government for a place. He has not whined nor lamented. He has dignified unmerited poverty by prudence and self-denial; and, unable to forget that he is a Bassett, he has put by a little money every year, and bought a small estate or two, and had even applied to the Lord-Lieutenant to make him a justice of the peace, when a most severe and unexpected blow fell upon him. Among those large proprietors who respected him in spite of his humbler circumstances was Mr. Hardwicke, one of the county members. Well, gentlemen, on the 21st of last May Mr. Bassett received a letter from Mr. Hardwicke inclosing one purporting to be from Sir Charles Bassett—
The Judge.—Does Sir Charles Bassett admit the letter?
Defendant's Counsel(after a word with Oldfield).—Yes, my lord.
Plaintiff's Counsel.—A letter admitted to be written by Sir Charles Bassett. That letter shall be read to you.
The letter was then read.
The counsel resumed: “Conceive, if you can, the effect of this blow, just as my unhappy and most deserving client was rising a little in the world. I shall prove that it excluded him from Mr. Hardwicke's house, and other houses too. He is a man of too much importance to risk affronts. He has never entered the door of any gentleman in this county since his powerful relative published this cruel libel. He has drawn his Spartan cloak around him, and he awaits your verdict to resume that place among you which is due to him in every way—due to him as the heir in direct line to the wealth, and, above all, to the honor of the Bassetts; due to him as Sir Charles Bassett's heir at law; and due to him on account of the decency and fortitude with which he has borne adversity, and with which he now repels foul-mouthed slander.”
“Hear! hear!”
“Silence in the court!”
“I have done, gentlemen, for the present. Indeed, eloquence, even if I possessed it, would be superfluous; the facts speak for themselves.—Call James Hardwicke, Esq.”
Mr. Hardwicke proved the receipt of the letter from Sir Charles, and that he had sent it to Mr. Bassett; and that Mr. Bassett had not entered his house since then, nor had he invited him.
Mr. Bassett was then called, and, being duly trained by Wheeler, abstained from all heat, and wore an air of dignified dejection. His counsel examined him, and his replies bore out the opening statement. Everybody thought him sure of a verdict.
He was then cross-examined. Defendant's counsel pressed him about his unfair way of shooting. The judge interfered, and said that was trifling. If there was no substantial defense, why not settle the matter?
“There is a defense, my lord.”
“Then it is time you disclosed it.”
“Very well, my lord. Mr. Bassett, did you ever write an anonymous letter?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Oh, that appears to you a trifle. It is not so considered.”
The Judge.—Be more particular in your question.
“I will, my lord.—Did you ever write an anonymous letter, to make mischief between Sir Charles and Lady Bassett?”
“Never,” said the witness; but he turned pale.
“Do you mean to say you did not write this letter to Miss Bruce? Look at the letter, Mr. Bassett, before you reply.”
Bassett cast one swift glance of agony at Wheeler; then braced himself like iron. He examined the letter attentively, turned it over, lived an age, and said it was not his writing.
“Do you swear that?”
“Certainly.”
Defendant's Counsel.—I shall ask your lordship to take down that reply. If persisted in, my client will indict the witness for perjury.
Plaintiff's Counsel.—Don't threaten the witness as well as insult him, please.
The Judge.—He is an educated man, and knows the duty he owes to God and the defendant.—Take time, Mr. Bassett, and recollect. Did you write that letter?”
“No, my lord.”
Counsel waited for the judge to note the reply, then proceeded.
“You have lately corresponded with Lady Bassett, I think?”
“Yes. Her ladyship opened a correspondence with me.”
“It is a lie!” roared Sir Charles Bassett from the door of the grand jury room.
“Silence in the court!”
The Judge.—Who made that unseemly remark?
Sir Charles.—I did, my lord. My wife never corresponded with the cur.
The Plaintiff.—It is only one insult more, gentlemen, and as false as the rest. Permit me, my lord. My own counsel would never have put the question. I would not, for the world, give Lady Bassett pain; but Sir Charles and his counsel have extorted the truth from me. Her ladyship did open a correspondence with me, and a friendly one.
The Plaintiff's Counsel.—Will your lordship ask whether that was after the defendant had written the libel?
The question was put, and answered in the affirmative.
Lady Bassett hid her face in her hands. Sir Charles saw the movement, and groaned aloud.
The Judge.—I beg the case may not be encumbered with irrelevant matter.
Counsel replied that the correspondence would be made evidence in the case.(To the witness.)—“You wrote this letter to Lady Bassett?”
“Yes.”
“And every word in it?”
“And every word in it,” faltered Bassett, now ashy pale, for he began to see the trap.
“Then you wrote this word 'character,' and this word 'injured,' and this word—”
The Judge(peevishly).—He tells you he wrote every word in those letters to Lady Bassett.—What more would you have?
Counsel.—If your lordship will be good enough to examine the correspondence, and compare those words in it I have underlined with the same words in the anonymous letter, you will perhaps find I know my business better than you seem to think. (The counsel who ventured on this remonstrance was a sergeant.)
“Brother Eitherside,” said the judge, with a charming manner, “you satisfied me of that, to my cost, long ago, whenever I had you against me in a case. Please hand me the letters.”
While the judge was making a keen comparison, counsel continued the cross-examination.
“You are aware that this letter caused a separation between Sir Charles Bassett and the lady he was engaged to?”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Indeed! Well, were you acquainted with the Miss Somerset mentioned in this letter?”
“Slightly.”
“You have been at her house?”
“Once or twice.”
“Which? Twice is double as often as once, you know.”
“Twice.”
“No more?”
“Not that I recollect.”
“You wrote to her?”
“I may have.”
“Did you, or did you not?”
“I did.”
“What was the purport of that letter?”
“I can't recollect at this distance of time.”
“On your oath, sir, did you not write urging her to co-operate with you to keep Sir Charles Bassett from marrying his affianced, Miss Bella Bruce, to whom that anonymous letter was written with the same object?”
The perspiration now rolled in visible drops down the tortured liar's face. Yet still, by a gigantic effort, he stood firm, and even planted a blow.
“I did not write the anonymous letter. But I believe I told Miss Somerset I loved Miss Bruce, and thatherlover was robbing me of mine, as he had robbed me of everything else.”
“And that was all you said—on your oath?”
“All I can recollect.” With this the strong man, cowed, terrified, expecting his letter to Somerset to be produced, and so the iron chain of evidence completed, gasped out, “Man, you tear open all my wounds at once!” and with this burst out sobbing, and lamenting aloud that he had ever been born.
Counsel waited calmly till he should be in a condition to receive another dose.
“Oh, will nobody stop this cruel trial?” said Lady Bassett, with the tears trickling down her face.
The judge heard this remark without seeming to do so.
He said to defendant's counsel, “Whatever the truth may be, you have proved enough to show Sir Charles Bassett might well have an honest conviction that Mr. Bassett had done a dastardly act. Whether a jury would ever agree on a question of handwriting must always be doubtful. Looking at the relationship of the parties, is it advisable to carry this matter further? If I might advise the gentlemen, they would each consent to withdraw a juror.”
Upon this suggestion the counsel for both parties put their heads together in animated whispers; and during this the judge made a remark to the jury, intended for the public: “Since Lady Bassett's name has been drawn into this, I must say that I have read her letters to Mr. Bassett, and they are such as she could write without in the least compromising her husband. Indeed, now the defense is disclosed, they appear to me to be wise and kindly letters, such as only a good wife, a high-bred lady, and a true Christian could write in so delicate a matter.”
Plaintiff's Counsel.—My lord, we are agreed to withdraw a juror.
Defendant's Counsel.—Out of respect for your lordship's advice, and not from any doubt of the result onourpart.
The Crier.—WACEv.HALIBURTON!
And so the car of justice rolled on till it came to Wheeler v. Bassett.
This case was soon disposed of.
Sir Charles Bassett was dignified and calm in the witness-box, and treated the whole matter with high-bred nonchalance, as one unworthy of the attention the Court was good enough to bestow on it. The judge disapproved the assault, but said the plaintiff had drawn it on himself by unprofessional conduct, and by threatening a gentleman in his own house. Verdict for the plaintiff—40s. The judge refused to certify for costs.
Lady Bassett, her throat parched with excitement, drove home, and awaited her husband's return with no little anxiety. As soon as she heard him in his dressing-room she glided in and went down on her knees to him. “Pray, pray don't scold me; I couldn't bear you to be defeated, Charles.”
Sir Charles raised her, but did not kiss her.
“You think only of me,” said he, rather sadly. “It is a sorry victory, too dearly bought.”
Then she began to cry.
Sir Charles begged her not to cry; but still he did not kiss her, nor conceal his mortification: he hardly spoke to her for several days.
She accepted her disgrace pensively and patiently. She thought it all over, and felt her husband was right, and loved her like a man. But she thought, also, that she was not very wrong to love him in her way. Wrong or not, she felt she could not sit idle and see his enemy defeat him.
The coolness died away by degrees, with so much humility on one side and so much love on both: but the subject was interdicted forever.
A week after the trial Lady Bassett wrote to Mrs. Marsh, under cover to Mr. Oldfield, and told her how the trial had gone, and, with many expressions of gratitude, invited her and her husband to Huntercombe Hall. She told Sir Charles what she had done, and he wore a very strange look. “Might I suggest that we have them alone?” said he dryly.
“By all means,” said Lady Bassett. “I don't want to share my paragon with anybody.”
In due course a reply came; Mr. and Mrs. Marsh would avail themselves some day of Lady Bassett's kindness: at present they were going abroad. The letter was written by a man's hand.
About this time Oldfield sent Sir Charles Miss Somerset's deed, canceled, and told him she had married a man of fortune, who was devoted to her, and preferred to take her without any dowry.
Bassett and Wheeler went home, crestfallen, and dined together. They discussed the two trials, and each blamed the other. They quarreled and parted: and Wheeler sent in an enormous bill, extending over five years. Eighty-five items began thus: “Attending you at your house for several hours, on which occasion you asked my advice as to whether—” etc.
Now as a great many of these attendances had been really to shoot game and dine on rabbits at Bassett's expense, he thought it hard the conversation should be charged and the rabbits not.
Disgusted with his defeat, and resolved to evade this bill, he discharged his servant, and put a retired soldier into his house, armed him with a blunderbuss, and ordered him to keep all doors closed, and present the weapon aforesaid at all rate collectors, tax collectors, debt collectors, and applicants for money to build churches or convert the heathen; but not tofireat anybody except his friend Wheeler, nor at him unless he should try to shove a writ in at some chink of the building.
This done, he went on his travels, third-class, with his eyes always open, and his heart full of bitterness.
Nothing happened to Richard Bassett on his travels that I need relate until one evening when he alighted at a small commercial inn in the city of York, and there met a person whose influence on the events I am about to relate seems at this moment incredible to me, though it is simple fact.
He found the commercial room empty, and rang the bell. In came the waiter, a strapping girl, with coal-black eyes and brows to match, and a brown skin, but glowing cheeks.
They both started at sight of each other. It was Polly Somerset.
“Why, Polly! How d'ye do? How do you come here?”
“It's along of you I'm here, young man,” said Polly, and began to whimper. She told him her sister had found out from the page she had been colloguing with him, and had never treated her like a sister after that. “And when she married a gentleman she wouldn't have me aside her for all I could say, but she did pack me off into service, and here I be.”
The girl was handsome, and had a liking for him. Bassett was idle, and time hung heavy on his hands: he stayed at the inn a fortnight, more for Polly's company than anything: and at last offered to put her into a vacant cottage on his own little estate of Highmore. But the girl was shrewd, and had seen a great deal of life this last three years; she liked Richard in her way, but she saw he was all self, and she would not trust him. “Nay,” said she, “I'll not break with Rhoda for any young man in Britain. If I leave service she will never own me at all: she is as hard as iron.”
“Well, but you might come and take service near me, and then we could often get a word together.”
“Oh, I'm agreeable to that: you find me a good place. I like an inn best; one sees fresh faces.”
Bassett promised to manage that for her. On reaching home he found a conciliatory letter from Wheeler, coupled with his permission to tax the bill according to his own notion of justice. This and other letters were in an outhouse; the old soldier had not permitted them to penetrate the fortress. He had entered into the spirit of his instructions, and to him a letter was a probable hand-grenade.
Bassett sent for Wheeler; the bill was reduced, and a small payment made; the rest postponed till better times. Wheeler was then consulted about Polly, and he told his client the landlady of the “Lamb” wanted a good active waitress; he thought he could arrange that little affair.
In due course, thanks to this artist, Mary Wells, hitherto known as Polly Somerset, landed with her boxes at the “Lamb “; and with her quick foot, her black eyes, and ready tongue soon added to the popularity of the inn. Richard Bassett, Esq., for one, used to sup there now and then with his friend Wheeler, and even sleep there after supper.
By-and-by the vicar of Huntercombe wanted a servant, and offered to engage Mary Wells.
She thought twice about that. She could neither write nor read, and therefore was dreadfully dull without company; the bustle of an inn, and people coming and going, amused her. However, it was a temptation to be near Richard Bassett; so she accepted at last. Unable to write, she could not consult him; and she made sure he would be delighted.
But when she got into the village the prudent Mr. Bassett drew in his horns, and avoided her. She was mortified and very angry. She revenged herself on her employer; broke double her wages. The vicar had never been able to convert a smasher; so he parted with her very readily to Lady Bassett, with a hint that she was rather unfortunate in glass and china.
In that large house her spirits rose, and, having a hearty manner and a clapper tongue, she became a general favorite.
One day she met Mr. Bassett in the village, and he seemed delighted at the sight of her, and begged her to meet him that night at a certain place where Sir Charles's garden was divided from his own by a ha-ha. It was a very secluded spot, shut out from view, even in daylight, by the trees and shrubs and the winding nature of the walk that led to it; yet it was scarcely a hundred yards from Huntercombe Hall.
Mary Wells came to the tryst, but in no amorous mood. She came merely to tell Mr. Bassett her mind, viz., that he was a shabby fellow, and she had had her cry, and didn't care a straw for him now. And she did tell him so, in a loud voice, and with a flushed cheek.
But he set to work, humbly and patiently, to pacify her; he represented that, in a small house like the vicarage, every thing is known; he should have ruined her character if he had not held aloof. “But it is different now,” said he. “You can run out of Huntercombe House, and meet me here, and nobody be the wiser.”
“Not I,” said Mary Wells, with a toss. “The worse thing a girl can do is to keep company with a gentleman. She must meet him in holes and corners, and be flung off, like an old glove, when she has served his turn.”
“That will never happen to you, Polly dear. We must be prudent for the present; but I shall be more my own master some day, and then you will see how I love you.”
“Seeing is believing,” said the girl, sullenly. “You be too fond of yourself to love the likes o' me.”
Such was the warning her natural shrewdness gave her. But perseverance undermined it. Bassett so often threw out hints of what he would do some day, mixed with warm protestations of love, that she began almost to hope he would marry her. She really liked him; his fine figure and his color pleased her eye, and he had a plausible tongue to boot.
As for him, her rustic beauty and health pleased his senses; but, for his heart, she had little place in that. What he courted her for just now was to keep him informed of all that passed in Huntercombe Hall. His morbid soul hung about that place, and he listened greedily to Mary Wells's gossip. He had counted on her volubility; it did not disappoint him. She never met him without a budget, one-half of it lies or exaggerations. She was a born liar. One night she came in high spirits, and greeted him thus: “What d'ye think? I'm riz! Mrs. Eden, that dresses my lady's hair, she took ill yesterday, and I told the housekeeper I was used to dress hair, and she told my lady. If you didn't please our Rhoda at that, 'twas as much as your life was worth. You mustn't be thinking of your young man with her hair in your hand, or she'd rouse you with a good crack on the crown with a hair-brush. So I dressed my lady's hair, and handled it like old chaney; by the same token, she is so pleased with me you can't think. She is a real lady; not like our Rhoda. Speaks as civil to me as if I was one of her own sort; and, says she, 'I should like to have you about me, if I might.' I had it on my tongue to tell her she was mistress; but I was a little skeared at her at first, you know. But she will have me about her; I see it in her eye.”
Bassett was delighted at this news, but he did not speak his mind all at once; the time was not come. He let the gypsy rattle on, and bided his time. He flattered her, and said he envied Lady Bassett to have such a beautiful girl about her. “I'll let my hair grow,” said he.
“Ay, do,” said she, “and then I'll pull it for you.”
This challenge ended in a little struggle for a kiss, the sincerity of which was doubtful. Polly resisted vigorously, to be sure, but briefly, and, having given in, returned it.
One day she told him Sir Charles had met her plump, and had given a great start.
This made Bassett very uneasy. “Confound it, he will turn you away. He will say, 'This girl knows too much.'”
“How simple you be!” said the girl. “D'ye think I let him know? Says he, 'I think I have seen you before.' 'Yes, sir,' says I, 'I was housemaid here before my lady had me to dress her.' 'No,' says he, 'I mean in London—in Mayfair, you know.' I declare you might ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. So I looks in his face, as cool as marble, and I said, 'No, sir; I never had the luck to see London, sir,' says I. 'All the better for you,' says he; and he swallowed it like spring water, as sister Rhoda used to say when she told one and they believed it.”
“You are a clever girl,” said Bassett. “He would have turned you out of the house if he had known who you were.”
She disappointed him in one thing; she was bad at answering questions. Morally she was not quite so great an egotist as himself, but intellectually a greater. Her volubility was all egotism. She could scarcely say ten words, except about herself. So, when Bassett questioned her about Sir Charles and Lady Bassett, she said “Yes,” or “No,” or “I don't know,” and was off at a tangent to her own sayings and doings.
Bassett, however, by great patience and tact, extracted from her at last that Sir Charles and Lady Bassett were both sore at not having children, and that Lady Bassett bore the blame.
“That is a good joke,” said he. “The smoke-dried rake! Polly, you might do me a good turn. You have got her ear; open her eyes for me. What might not happen?” His eyes shone fiendishly.
The young woman shook her head. “Me meddle between man and wife! I'm too fond of my place.”
“Ah, you don't love me as I love you. You think only of yourself.”
“And what do you think of? Do you love me well enough to find me a better place, if you get me turned out of Huntercombe Hall?”
“Yes, I will; a much better.”
“That is a bargain.”
Mary Wells was silly in some things, but she was very cunning, too; and she knew Richard Bassett's hobby. She told him to mind himself, as well as Sir Charles, or perhaps he would die a bachelor, and so his flesh and blood would never inherit Huntercombe. This remark entered his mind. The trial, though apparently a drawn battle, had been fatal to him—he was cut; he dared not pay his addresses to any lady in the county, and he often felt very lonely now. So everything combined to draw him toward Mary Wells—her swarthy beauty, which shone out at church like a black diamond among the other women; his own loneliness; and the pleasure these stolen meetings gave him. Custom itself is pleasant, and the company of this handsome chatterbox became a habit, and an agreeable one. The young woman herself employed a woman's arts; she was cold and loving by turns till at last he gave her what she was working for, a downright promise of marriage. She pretended not to believe him, and so led him further; he swore he would marry her.
He made one stipulation, however. She really must learn to read and write first.
When he had sworn this Mary became more uniformly affectionate; and as women who have been in service learn great self-government, and can generally please so long as it serves their turn, she made herself so agreeable to him that he began really to have a downright liking for her—a liking bounded, of course, by his incurable selfishness; but as for his hobby, that was on her side.
Now learning to read and write was wormwood to Mary Wells; but the prize was so great; she knew all about the Huntercombe estates, partly from her sister, partly from Bassett himself. (He must tell his wrongs even to this girl.) So she resolved to pursue matrimony, even on the severe condition of becoming a scholar. She set about it as follows: One day that she was doing Lady Bassett's hair she sighed several times. This was to attract the lady's attention, and it succeeded.
“Is there anything the matter, Mary?”
“No, my lady.”
“I think there is.”
“Well, my lady, I am in a little trouble; but it is my own people's fault for not sending of me to school. I might be married to-morrow if I could only read and write.”
“And can you not?”
“No, my lady.”
“Dear me! I thought everybody could read and write nowadays.”
“La, no, my lady! not half of them in our village.”
“Your parents are much to blame, my poor girl. Well, but it is not too late. Now I think of it, there is an adult school in the village. Shall I arrange for you to go to it?”
“Thank you, my lady. But then—”
“Well?”
“All my fellow-servants would have a laugh against me.”
“The person you are engaged to, will he not instruct you?”
“Oh, he have no time to teach me. Besides, I don't want him to know, either. But I won't be his wife to shame him.” (Another sigh.)
“Mary,” said Lady Bassett, in the innocence of her heart, “you shall not be mortified, and you shall not lose a good marriage. I will try and teach you myself.”
Mary was profuse in thanks. Lady Bassett received them rather coldly. She gave her a few minutes' instruction in her dressing-room every day; and Mary, who could not have done anything intellectual for half an hour at a stretch, gave her whole mind for those few minutes. She was quick, and learned very fast. In two months she could read a great deal more than she could understand, and could write slowly but very clearly.
Now by this time Lady Bassett had become so interested in her pupil that she made her read letters and newspapers to her at those parts of the toilet when her services were not required.
Mary Wells, though a great chatterbox, was the closest girl in England. Limpet never stuck to a rock as she could stick to a lie. She never said one word to Bassett about Lady Bassett's lessons. She kept strict silence till she could write a letter, and then she sent him a line to say she had learned to write for love of him, and she hoped he would keep his promise.
Bassett's vanity was flattered by this. But, on reflection, he suspected it was a falsehood. He asked her suddenly, at their next meeting, who had written that note for her.
“You shall see me write the fellow to it when you like,” was the reply.
Bassett resolved to submit the matter to that test some day. At present, however, he took her word for it, and asked her who had taught her.
“I had to teach myself. Nobody cares enough for me to teach me. Well, I'll forgive you if you will write me a nice letter for mine.”
“What! when we can meet here and say everything?”
“No matter; I have written to you, and you might write to me. They all get letters, except me; and the jades hold 'em up to me: they see I never get one. When you are out, post me a letter now and then. It will only cost you a penny. I'm sure I don't ask you for much.”
Bassett humored her in this, and in one of his letters called her his wife that was to be.
This pleased her so much that the next time they met she hung round his neck with a good deal of feminine grace.
Richard Bassett was a man who now lived in the future. Everybody in the county believed he had written that anonymous letter, and he had no hope of shining by his own light. It was bitter to resign his personal hopes; but he did, and sullenly resolved to be obscure himself, but the father of the future heirs of Huntercombe. He would marry Mary Wells, and lay the blame of the match upon Sir Charles, who had blackened him in the county, and put it out of his power to win a lady's hand.
He told Wheeler he was determined to marry; but he had not the courage to tell him all at once what a wife he had selected.
The consequence of this half confession was that Wheeler went to work to find him a girl with money, and not under county influence.
One of Wheeler's clients was a retired citizen, living in a pretty villa near the market town. Mr. Wright employed him in little matters, and found him active and attentive. There was a Miss Wright, a meek little girl, palish, on whom her father doted. Wheeler talked to this girl of his friend Bassett, his virtues and his wrongs, and interested the young lady in him. This done, he brought him to the house, and the girl, being slight and delicate, gazed with gentle but undisguised admiration on Bassett'storso.Wheeler had told Richard Miss Wright was to have seven thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and that excited a corresponding admiration in the athletic gentleman.
After that Bassett often called by himself, and the father encouraged the intimacy. He was old, and wished to see his daughter married before he left her and this seemed an eligible match, though not a brilliant one; a bit of land and a good name on one side, a smart bit of money on the other. The thing went on wheels. Richard Bassett was engaged to Jane Wright almost before he was aware.
Now he felt uneasy about Mary Wells, very uneasy; but it was only the uneasiness of selfishness.
He began to try and prepare; he affected business visits to distant places, etc., in order to break off by degrees. By this means their meetings were comparatively few. When they did meet (which was now generally by written appointment), he tried to prepare by telling her he had encountered losses, and feared that to marry her would be a bad job for her as well as for him, especially if she should have children.
Mary replied she had been used to work, and would rather work for a husband than any other master.
On another occasion she asked him quietly whether a gentleman ever broke his oath.
“Never,” said Richard.
In short, she gave him no opening. She would not quarrel. She adhered to him as she had never adhered to anything but a lie before.
Then he gave up all hope of smoothing the matter. He coolly cut her; never came to the trysting-place; did not answer her letters; and, being a reckless egotist, married Jane Wright all in a hurry, by special license.
He sent forward to the clerk of Huntercombe church, and engaged the ringers to ring the church-bells from six o'clock till sundown. This was for Sir Charles's ears.
It was a balmy evening in May. Lady Bassett was commencing her toilet in an indolent way, with Mary Wells in attendance, when the church-bells of Huntercombe struck up a merry peal.
“Ah!” said Lady Bassett; “what is that for? Do you know, Mary?”
“No, my lady. Shall I ask?”
“No; I dare say it is a village wedding.”
“No, my lady, there's nobody been married here this six weeks. Our kitchen-maid and the baker was the last, you know. I'll send, and know what it is for.” Mary went out and dispatched the first house-maid she caught for intelligence. The girl ran into the stable to her sweetheart, and he told her directly.
Meantime Lady Bassett moralized upon church-bells.
“They are always sad—saddest when they seem to be merriest. Poor things! they are trying hard to be merry now; but they sound very sad to me—sadder than usual, somehow.”
The girl knocked at the door. Mary half opened it, and the news shot in—“'Tis for Squire Bassett; he is bringing of his bride home to Highmore to-day.”
“Mr. Bassett—married—that is sudden. Who could he find to marry him?” There was no reply. The house-maid had flown off to circulate the news, and Mary Wells was supporting herself by clutching the door, sick with the sudden blow.
Close as she was, her distress could not have escaped another woman's eye, but Lady Bassett never looked at her. After the first surprise she had gone into a reverie, and was conjuring up the future to the sound of those church-bells. She requested Mary to go and tell Sir Charles; but she did not lift her head, even to give this order.
Mary crept away, and knocked at Sir Charles's dressing-room.
“Come in,” said Sir Charles, thinking, of course, it was his valet.
Mary Wells just opened the door and held it ajar. “My lady bids me tell you, sir, the bells are ringing for Mr. Bassett; he's married, and brings her home tonight.”
A dead silence marked the effect of this announcement on Sir Charles. Mary Wells waited.
“May Heaven's curse light on that marriage, and no child of theirs ever take my place in this house!”
“A-a-men!” said Mary Wells.
“Thank you, sir!” said Sir Charles. He took her voice for a man's, so deep and guttural was her “A—a—men” with concentrated passion.
She closed the door and crept back to her mistress.
Lady Bassett was seated at her glass, with her hair down and her shoulders bare. Mary clinched her teeth, and set about her usual work; but very soon Lady Bassett gave a start, and stared into the glass. “Mary!” said she, “whatisthe matter? You look ghastly, and your hands are as cold as ice. Are you faint?”
“No.”
“Then you are ill; very ill.”
“I have taken a chill,” said Mary, doggedly.
“Go instantly to the still-room maid, and get a large glass of spirits and hot water—quite hot.”
Mary, who wanted to be out of the room, fastened her mistress's back hair with dogged patience, and then moved toward the door.
“Mary,” said Lady Bassett, in a half-apologetic tone.
“My lady.”
“I should like to hear what the bride is like.”
“I'll know that to-night,” said Mary, grinding her teeth.
“I shall not require you again till bedtime.”
Mary left the room, and went, not to the still-room, but to her own garret, and there she gave way. She flung herself, with a wild cry, upon her little bed, and clutched her own hair and the bedclothes, and writhed all about the bed like a wild-cat wounded.
In this anguish she passed an hour she never forgot nor forgave. She got up at last, and started at her own image in the glass. Hair like a savage's, cheek pale, eyes blood-shot.