CHAPTERCIX.A YOUNG WIFE’S DANGER—THE DENOUEMENT.Mr. Fortescue managed to sleep pretty soundly, despite his plans and machinations. He was such a consummate scoundrel and hypocrite that he was enabled to carry out his infamous project with the utmost coolness and address.He had neither pity nor remorse for the friend who had cherished him in such good faith and in such unshaken confidence.He rose early, in the hope of enjoying half an hour with Patty before her husband returned to breakfast. He had met her thus the day before, and had told her that he intended to rise earlier the next morning.To this she replied with one of those looks which women use when they wish to accord favours, but fear to betray themselves by words.In a few minutes he heard footsteps outside the door; he ran to it before it was opened and said—“Good morning, Mrs. Ashbrook.”“It is not Mrs. Ashbrook,” replied a stern voice. Kitty confronted him.“It is not Mrs. Ashbrook,” she repeated.He shrugged his shoulders, but beneath this apparent non-challenge he prepared himself for a duel. He saw that the crisis was come, and that his opponent was not to be despised.“I’m glad we’ve met,” said the girl. “Very glad.”“Indeed, and why, pray?”“Because I’ve a serious word to say to you, sir, and the time’s come to say it.”“A serious word, my girl. Well, I’m all attention. Say it, then, without further ado. Something strictly confidential, I suppose?”“I dunno about that; but harkee, Mr. Fortescue, or whatever may be your name—”“That is my name. You are particular. One would suppose you were a lawyer about to open an indictment. Go on, Kitty.”“Ye mean to act basely towards my young mistress—that’s what ’ee mean to do. Oh, none of your lying looks and lifting of hands at me. I be only a common country gell, but I can tell what it is as shines in your eye when you see her, and trimbles in your voice when you speak to her. I can tell what it is as meks you sit thinkin’ by day and wander about your room by night. I can tell what it is that’s plottin’ in your hard black heart as well and better than a lord’s lady or a squire’s wife.”“Can you?”“Yes, I can.”“Upon my word you are an astonishingly clever girl. I should not have given you credit for so much penetration. You can read my thoughts, can you, and see into my—my—‘black heart,’ as you are pleased to term it? I don’t know which to admire most—your perspicuity or your politeness.”“It won’t do, Mr. Fortescue. I won’t be put aside by foine words.”“You take my advice, my excellent and sagacious friend. Look after your pigs and poultry, and don’t attempt to meddle in matters which don’t concern you.”“Not consarn me! not consarn me! Don’t it, indeed? Do you suppose I am likely to stand tamely by and see a white dove carried off by a ravenous kite? Don’t it consarn me to see the dear lady I’ve known from a child on the edge of being ruined for this life, and for the next, too, maybe?”“Your similes do you great credit,” said Mr. Fortescue coolly, paring his nails with his penknife—“very great credit, especially the white dove and kite. I am the kite, I presume, and your mistress is the white dove. Anything more?”Kitty became furious. She could not stand the fellow’s cool impudence and sarcasm.“Harkee, Mr. Fortescue; if you aint out of this house by to-night’s dusk or afore then, I’ll tell Mr. Ashbrook, and he’ll pitch ’ee out; aye, and I’ll help ’im, too. D’ye see this arm? it’s bigger than your’n, and it’s stronger than your’n, and it’s thrashed a better man than you, for all your fine beard and cloth clothes and women’s scents.”Mr. Fortescue was perfectly unmoved. He looked languidly at the speaker, and said, carelessly—“You are a brave champion, I admit; but you are a silly girl, nevertheless—a very silly girl. I have no intention of acting badly towards your mistress; dismiss such a thought from your mind.”“I won’t believe it. Be out of the house by the shank of the evening, or Mr. Ashbrook shall towel ’ee till your white skin’s black and blue, my London gentleman.”He clenched his teeth, and approached her. Revelling in her vast strength, Kitty waited for him with her bare brown arms folded on her chest.He poured a fierce whisper in her ear.She became pale. “Oh, no, no,” she cried. “He is dead, and there has never been a breath agen him yet.”He saw her weak point, and attacked her like a fiend.“Don’t tell me,” he cried. “I know the whole history. Mr. Philip Jamblin, who was murdered in Larchgrove Lane, had another sweetheart besides the one who gave evidence on the trial. I know who that was.”“It is false,” she cried; “but even if he had, what has it to do with you? Do what you like wi’ me. Pelt me, put me in the pillory, but not a word agen him.”He went up to her, and said in a soft voice—“Do not be afraid, Kitty—I will not betray you. I have a secret of yours—you have a secret of mine; let us be friends.”She did not answer him; he left the kitchen, contented with his morning’s work.Matters after this went on much the same as usual at Stoke Ferry Farm for some few days after the altercation between Kitty and Fortescue.One morning, however, there was a change in the aspect of affairs. Richard Ashbrook was moody and discontented. It was easy to perceive that he was ill at ease, and that something troubled him. What this was his wife was at a loss to divine.“You seem to be out of sorts,” said Patty; “you have scarcely touched your breakfast. Richard, dear, what ails you?”He did not answer at first. When he spoke it seemed as if there was something in his throat choking him.“Matter, indeed!” he ejaculated. “To my thinking there’s a deal the matter. I’ve heard bad tidings, and it’s upset me.”“Goodness me, what is it, then? Tell me all about it. Is anyone ill?”“No it beant that. Everybody as we know seems to be well enough. It’s not a matter of sickness or disease, nor yet of bones breaking, nor crops failing, nor cattle dying of the rinderpest. It be worse than that I’ve heard to-day, Patty. I’ve heard to-day that the man I trusted most in the world—the man I loved loike a brother as one may say—the man I treated as one of my own kin and my own blood——”He ceased suddenly, and drew his hand across his eyes.“That man is trying to ruin me—to rob me of all I hold best in the world—that while my bread has been in his mouth, and my words of welcome in his ear, he has been jeering at me in his heart, and setting snares to betray me and mine.”“Ah, Richard, how very dreadful; but are you sure of this?”“Quite sure,” he returned—“Quite sure.”“Ah! I do hope you are mistaken.”He strode across the room, and gripped her by the shoulder till she winced with pain.“I tell ’ee there aint any mistake about it,” he ejaculated. “If ye had nursed a worm in your bosom till he had turned a viper what would ye do? Would you let the reptile crawl away, alive and strong as ever, to sting other hearts, or would ye crush his head beneath your heel, as ye’d crush a weazel or a stoat? Wouldn’t ye crush the varmint? Answer me, Patty—speak, wife.”“You are so excited, so moved, that I hardly know what answer to make; but, Richard, be careful—keep within the law.”“I’ll keep within the law, never fear,” he answered, with a terrible smile. “But the law, my gell, is hard upon such men as he; and I intend to be hard upon him, or my name’s not Richard Ashbrook. The soft-spoken, circumventing vagabond!”Kitty now made her appearance. She was very pale, but her voice was firm.“Your horse is at the door, master. Ye’ll be late for market unless you are off at once.” And she added some words in a hoarse whisper.The farmer mounted his horse and rode off.His wife was seriously concerned about him. She sat by herself, thinking and trembling. She had never seen him in such a fluster before, and he had not told her who it was that had behaved so ungratefully, nor what it was that he had tried to do. She was greatly puzzled. Who could it be? She could not determine. Possibly he would give her the whole particulars when he returned from market. Any way, she must rest contented for a while—that is, as contented as she could be under the circumstances.In a few minutes after Ashbrook’s departure, Mr. Fortescue came down stairs. There was an expression of anticipated triumph in his face, cloaked by precaution.At first Patty’s manners were absent and restrained. She was thinking more of her husband’s violence than of the fascinating young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself so agreeable. Mr. Fortescue was a little disconcerted at her indifference, the reason for which he could not very well comprehend; but he strove to hold her engaged, and he succeeded so well that in the course of half an hour of his mellifluous conversation all thoughts of her husband were banished from Patty’s mind.Still she had no idea of doing anything actually wrong. She reasoned to herself that she was fond of being alone with Mr. Fortescue because she liked his conversation, and when her husband was present they talked so much about farming and so little about the world. The association with the Lady Aveline had given her a taste for the gaiety of London life; this, however, had in a measure passed away. She was well satisfied with her present sphere of action; nevertheless, she liked to hear the scandal and gossip which floated about respecting those who move in fashionable society. Mr. Fortescue abounded in anecdote, and seemed to be deeply versed in the movements of great personages. As may be readily supposed, he drew largely upon his imagination, and did not confine himself to the truth. She listened to his discourse, and was charmed. In other words, she wished to gaze into the depths of a horrible abyss, and had invited a murderer of women’s souls to lead her to the brink.Fortescue soon guided the conversation to topics of fashionable life, and with consummate art drew a sketch of matrimonial intrigue—a sketch in which he took care to introduce none of those dark and terrible tints which form the background of such pictures in real life.She remembered having heard similar narratives fall from the lips of persons she met with in London, when she sojourned there with Lady Marolyn and Aveline, but these were pure and innocent—no comparison to Mr. Fortescue’s.And, as an experienced huntsman does not frighten his quarry by riding straight towards it, but rides round and round, gradually lessening the circle, till the deer having become familiarised with the dangerous object, no longer heeds it—so by imperceptible gradations he approached this foolish deer, who sat listening to all his wicked nonsense with open ears and wondering eyes.I do not wish to analyse the infernal art with which he excited the senses of an innocent and guileless woman; many who read these pages might take that as a guide—others would refuse to accept it as a warning.Mr. Fortescue presently poured into her ear a passionate declaration of attachment, which she ought not to have listened to. He hung over her, he placed his arm round her waist, and before she was aware of it, his lips met hers. She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and said—“Mr. Fortescue, release me. This conduct is unpardonable. Pray—”She ceased suddenly, for a dark shadow fell across the room, and they both looked up. It was Richard Ashbrook standing on the threshold.“I am glad you have come,” cried his wife.He made no reply, but with one hand gestured for her to leave the room.She crept past him with her head bowed upon her breast.For a few brief moments the farmer stood still as if to reflect. His face was white, but very calm. Presently he made towards the door, locked it, and thrust the key into his pocket; after this he drew down the blinds.Fortescue, who was perfectly astounded at the sudden appearance of the farmer, was at no loss to comprehend that he was made a prisoner. Trusting to bravado to save him he hummed an air from the last new opera.“You infamous, deceptive scoundrel,” cried Ashbrook; “I’ve half a mind to shoot ’ee as I would shoot down a fox or a wolf. It would be no more than you deserve.”“Indeed, and why so?”“You came here a stranger,” said Ashbrook, endeavouring as best he could to command his temper for a while; “I gave you a night’s rest unasked; for several weeks I have made you live with me, and have treated you to the best of my poor power; I have made my home your home—I have made my friends your friends.”“I do not deny all this,” said Fortescue. “In point of fact, I admit it. But then, my honest yeoman, consider the honour of having a gentleman in your house. I have to return you many thanks for your kindness and hospitality.”“A gentleman!” cried Ashbrook; “God keep me from such gentlemen! A blackguard, you mean—a gambler—and a thief!”“Have a care, Mr. Ashbrook, as to what you say. There is such a thing as indicting a man for defamation of character.”“Character! you’ve none to lose, you sneak. You’ve deceived my wife,” said the farmer, raising his voice; “ye’ve deceived me, poor fool that I have bin; ye’ve tried to disgrace us both for life.”No.58.Illust: ASHBROOK RECEIVING THE CHALLENGEASHBROOK RECEIVING THE CHALLENGE FROM “CAPTAIN BRADLEY.”“That I deny. Assertions are one thing and proof is another—remember that, Mr. Ashbrook.”“I call ye a coward and a dirty, contemptible hound, but I don’t intend to let ’ee off with hard words—I mean to give ’ee a few hard blows. You won’t forget Stoke Ferry, I’ll dare be sworn, for many a long day.”“Ah, you are pugnaciously disposed, are you? Well, we can easily arrange matters. I have a pair of new trigger pistols upstairs, and am ready to give you satisfaction wherever and whenever you please.”“Satisfaction, ye call it, you audacious varmint. Ah, ah! That’s a queer sort of satisfaction. Because you’ve done me wrong I’m to be shot at with a pistol. No, no, my man—I know a trick worth two of that. This is what I call satisfaction, you impudent monkey.”He sprang to the fireplace and snatched down a stout ash stick which hung over the mantel-shelf, and which he made whistle a sinister melody.“One minute, sir, if you please,” said the wretch, who soon began to tremble for the first time. “You accuse me of being a coward and a scoundrel because I have flirted with your wife. Pray may I inquire if you knew Mr. Philip Jamblin—he was murdered in Larchgrove-lane?”“What if I did? Don’t ’ee say anything agen him.”“You knew him?”“Yes. What of that?”“Did he flirt with anybody? Answer me that.”“Dall you, if you speak a word agen Philip, I’ll have your life, you cowardly dirty scoundrel. He aint here to take his own part, but I am here, and that’s just as well. Dare you speak of a murdered man to me his bosom friend, by all I hold most sacred, before you leave this room, you shall pay in part for the pain ye’ve made me bear.”Mr. Fortescue was at no loss to divine that the farmer was in earnest. He whirled round the stout ash stick in a most menacing manner. The London gentleman sprang towards the window, which he endeavoured to open, but the farmer was too sharp for him. He caught Fortescue by the collar of his coat, and with herculean strength dragged him from the window, then he belaboured him most unmercifully with his stick, with which he rained a series of terrible blows on his back and shoulders.Fortescue flew to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. On the instant he received a terrific blow on the wrist, the poker dropped from his hand, which by this time had been rendered powerless, and then another series of blows followed in quick succession.If any man ever had a sound thrashing, Mr. Fortescue was the man.“Get out of my house and never darken my doors again,” cried Ashbrook, opening the parlour door, and thrusting his visitor forcibly out. The latter did not want a second bidding. He made his exit without further ado. As he was passing the back kitchen which abutted out from the farmhouse, the girl Kitty, who had been watching for his appearance, flung a paii of dirty water over him.“Take that, you dirty conceited puppy,” said she.Dripping with wet and aching in every limb, Mr. Fortescue flew over the fields as if pursued by some wild animal, and was soon lost to sight.“Joy go with him!” cried Kitty, “the dirty lying blackguard. I dont think it likely we shall be troubled with him agen, master.”“I hope not,” said Ashbrook. “I fancy he’s had a pretty good dose.”“And one as ell last him a long time,” observed the servant, retreating into the washhouse.Patty Ashbrook remained sad and silent upon a seat in her own chamber, her face distorted with terror as she listened to the sound of heavy blows and the cries of the man who but a few moments before had been whispering loving words into her ear. She despised him now, but not more than she despised herself. For now she remembered every little act, every word of kindness her husband had ever bestowed upon her. Now she felt that she was an ungrateful wretch, that she deserved to be driven from her home, even as Mr. Fortescue had been.This last thought flashed upon her like a flash of fire, and dried up the last glad warm drops of blood in her unhappy heart.Oh, what a horrible fate it seemed to be—compelled to leave the house in which she had been happy from her earliest infancy—in which she had lived with those whom she loved and honoured most in the world!She glanced tearfully round the room, as if to engrave everything it contained more firmly on her memory. Perhaps she might never enter that room again.All was silent below. Then she heard the door open and shut; then the voice of Kitty; then another interval of silence.There were then minutes of terrible silence. She heard a slow and solemn footstep upon the stairs. She held her breath; her tears ceased to flow.She flung herself into a chair, and raised her eyes full of repentance to the pale calm face of her injured husband.“I’ve got rid of un for good and for all; heaven be praised for that,” said Ashbrook.“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed Patty; “beat me; beat me heavily, for I deserve it, but do not drive me from you. I could not live away from you.”“I hope not,” returned he, placing his broad brown hand upon her shoulders. “Nobody would wish it—leastways not me.” His voice was gentle with love, tremulous with pity.“I say I have got rid of that viper whom I ha’ bin foolish enough to cherish. I ought to be set down as a born idiot for my foolishness. But we are none on us wise at all times.”“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed his wife. “You ought to blame me—which no doubt you do. I have been more to blame than you have; but can you forgive me, my dear, honest husband?”“Can I forgive you?” cried Ashbrook. “You ha’ bin a good wife for me for five long years, Patty. You have worked hard for me by day and by night. When I’ve come home weary, and oftentimes, it may be, a bit ruffled in temper, you ha’ always had a sweet word and a kind kiss for me; and do you think, my lass, that I ha’ any right to forget all that, and let a silly, foolish hour or so blot out the thoughts and memories of five good years? No, no, my gell. We’ve been both to blame; I ha’ bin more foolish and blind than what you ha’ bin.”He took her in his arms and cradled her on his manly breast.“Oh, Richard,” she ejaculated—“my own dear, good Richard!”“It was more my fault than yourn,” cried Ashbrook—“a deal more my fault. I know that now. I put faith in this—this deceivin’ varmint. I left him with ’ee. I gave him good chances to pison your mind, and to draw your love from me to him for a little while. More fool me. But your love’s all come back agen now—aint it, lass?—and stronger and warmer and truer than afore, if that be possible, which somehow I doant think it can?”She did not answer him. Her head was upon his shoulder, and her face was covered with her beautiful brown hair. She was still weeping, “but now her tears were tears of joy.”“My dear Patty,” cried the farmer. “Heaven be praised! you’ve bin saved from the teeth of the wolf.”
Mr. Fortescue managed to sleep pretty soundly, despite his plans and machinations. He was such a consummate scoundrel and hypocrite that he was enabled to carry out his infamous project with the utmost coolness and address.
He had neither pity nor remorse for the friend who had cherished him in such good faith and in such unshaken confidence.
He rose early, in the hope of enjoying half an hour with Patty before her husband returned to breakfast. He had met her thus the day before, and had told her that he intended to rise earlier the next morning.
To this she replied with one of those looks which women use when they wish to accord favours, but fear to betray themselves by words.
In a few minutes he heard footsteps outside the door; he ran to it before it was opened and said—
“Good morning, Mrs. Ashbrook.”
“It is not Mrs. Ashbrook,” replied a stern voice. Kitty confronted him.
“It is not Mrs. Ashbrook,” she repeated.
He shrugged his shoulders, but beneath this apparent non-challenge he prepared himself for a duel. He saw that the crisis was come, and that his opponent was not to be despised.
“I’m glad we’ve met,” said the girl. “Very glad.”
“Indeed, and why, pray?”
“Because I’ve a serious word to say to you, sir, and the time’s come to say it.”
“A serious word, my girl. Well, I’m all attention. Say it, then, without further ado. Something strictly confidential, I suppose?”
“I dunno about that; but harkee, Mr. Fortescue, or whatever may be your name—”
“That is my name. You are particular. One would suppose you were a lawyer about to open an indictment. Go on, Kitty.”
“Ye mean to act basely towards my young mistress—that’s what ’ee mean to do. Oh, none of your lying looks and lifting of hands at me. I be only a common country gell, but I can tell what it is as shines in your eye when you see her, and trimbles in your voice when you speak to her. I can tell what it is as meks you sit thinkin’ by day and wander about your room by night. I can tell what it is that’s plottin’ in your hard black heart as well and better than a lord’s lady or a squire’s wife.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Upon my word you are an astonishingly clever girl. I should not have given you credit for so much penetration. You can read my thoughts, can you, and see into my—my—‘black heart,’ as you are pleased to term it? I don’t know which to admire most—your perspicuity or your politeness.”
“It won’t do, Mr. Fortescue. I won’t be put aside by foine words.”
“You take my advice, my excellent and sagacious friend. Look after your pigs and poultry, and don’t attempt to meddle in matters which don’t concern you.”
“Not consarn me! not consarn me! Don’t it, indeed? Do you suppose I am likely to stand tamely by and see a white dove carried off by a ravenous kite? Don’t it consarn me to see the dear lady I’ve known from a child on the edge of being ruined for this life, and for the next, too, maybe?”
“Your similes do you great credit,” said Mr. Fortescue coolly, paring his nails with his penknife—“very great credit, especially the white dove and kite. I am the kite, I presume, and your mistress is the white dove. Anything more?”
Kitty became furious. She could not stand the fellow’s cool impudence and sarcasm.
“Harkee, Mr. Fortescue; if you aint out of this house by to-night’s dusk or afore then, I’ll tell Mr. Ashbrook, and he’ll pitch ’ee out; aye, and I’ll help ’im, too. D’ye see this arm? it’s bigger than your’n, and it’s stronger than your’n, and it’s thrashed a better man than you, for all your fine beard and cloth clothes and women’s scents.”
Mr. Fortescue was perfectly unmoved. He looked languidly at the speaker, and said, carelessly—
“You are a brave champion, I admit; but you are a silly girl, nevertheless—a very silly girl. I have no intention of acting badly towards your mistress; dismiss such a thought from your mind.”
“I won’t believe it. Be out of the house by the shank of the evening, or Mr. Ashbrook shall towel ’ee till your white skin’s black and blue, my London gentleman.”
He clenched his teeth, and approached her. Revelling in her vast strength, Kitty waited for him with her bare brown arms folded on her chest.
He poured a fierce whisper in her ear.
She became pale. “Oh, no, no,” she cried. “He is dead, and there has never been a breath agen him yet.”
He saw her weak point, and attacked her like a fiend.
“Don’t tell me,” he cried. “I know the whole history. Mr. Philip Jamblin, who was murdered in Larchgrove Lane, had another sweetheart besides the one who gave evidence on the trial. I know who that was.”
“It is false,” she cried; “but even if he had, what has it to do with you? Do what you like wi’ me. Pelt me, put me in the pillory, but not a word agen him.”
He went up to her, and said in a soft voice—
“Do not be afraid, Kitty—I will not betray you. I have a secret of yours—you have a secret of mine; let us be friends.”
She did not answer him; he left the kitchen, contented with his morning’s work.
Matters after this went on much the same as usual at Stoke Ferry Farm for some few days after the altercation between Kitty and Fortescue.
One morning, however, there was a change in the aspect of affairs. Richard Ashbrook was moody and discontented. It was easy to perceive that he was ill at ease, and that something troubled him. What this was his wife was at a loss to divine.
“You seem to be out of sorts,” said Patty; “you have scarcely touched your breakfast. Richard, dear, what ails you?”
He did not answer at first. When he spoke it seemed as if there was something in his throat choking him.
“Matter, indeed!” he ejaculated. “To my thinking there’s a deal the matter. I’ve heard bad tidings, and it’s upset me.”
“Goodness me, what is it, then? Tell me all about it. Is anyone ill?”
“No it beant that. Everybody as we know seems to be well enough. It’s not a matter of sickness or disease, nor yet of bones breaking, nor crops failing, nor cattle dying of the rinderpest. It be worse than that I’ve heard to-day, Patty. I’ve heard to-day that the man I trusted most in the world—the man I loved loike a brother as one may say—the man I treated as one of my own kin and my own blood——”
He ceased suddenly, and drew his hand across his eyes.
“That man is trying to ruin me—to rob me of all I hold best in the world—that while my bread has been in his mouth, and my words of welcome in his ear, he has been jeering at me in his heart, and setting snares to betray me and mine.”
“Ah, Richard, how very dreadful; but are you sure of this?”
“Quite sure,” he returned—“Quite sure.”
“Ah! I do hope you are mistaken.”
He strode across the room, and gripped her by the shoulder till she winced with pain.
“I tell ’ee there aint any mistake about it,” he ejaculated. “If ye had nursed a worm in your bosom till he had turned a viper what would ye do? Would you let the reptile crawl away, alive and strong as ever, to sting other hearts, or would ye crush his head beneath your heel, as ye’d crush a weazel or a stoat? Wouldn’t ye crush the varmint? Answer me, Patty—speak, wife.”
“You are so excited, so moved, that I hardly know what answer to make; but, Richard, be careful—keep within the law.”
“I’ll keep within the law, never fear,” he answered, with a terrible smile. “But the law, my gell, is hard upon such men as he; and I intend to be hard upon him, or my name’s not Richard Ashbrook. The soft-spoken, circumventing vagabond!”
Kitty now made her appearance. She was very pale, but her voice was firm.
“Your horse is at the door, master. Ye’ll be late for market unless you are off at once.” And she added some words in a hoarse whisper.
The farmer mounted his horse and rode off.
His wife was seriously concerned about him. She sat by herself, thinking and trembling. She had never seen him in such a fluster before, and he had not told her who it was that had behaved so ungratefully, nor what it was that he had tried to do. She was greatly puzzled. Who could it be? She could not determine. Possibly he would give her the whole particulars when he returned from market. Any way, she must rest contented for a while—that is, as contented as she could be under the circumstances.
In a few minutes after Ashbrook’s departure, Mr. Fortescue came down stairs. There was an expression of anticipated triumph in his face, cloaked by precaution.
At first Patty’s manners were absent and restrained. She was thinking more of her husband’s violence than of the fascinating young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself so agreeable. Mr. Fortescue was a little disconcerted at her indifference, the reason for which he could not very well comprehend; but he strove to hold her engaged, and he succeeded so well that in the course of half an hour of his mellifluous conversation all thoughts of her husband were banished from Patty’s mind.
Still she had no idea of doing anything actually wrong. She reasoned to herself that she was fond of being alone with Mr. Fortescue because she liked his conversation, and when her husband was present they talked so much about farming and so little about the world. The association with the Lady Aveline had given her a taste for the gaiety of London life; this, however, had in a measure passed away. She was well satisfied with her present sphere of action; nevertheless, she liked to hear the scandal and gossip which floated about respecting those who move in fashionable society. Mr. Fortescue abounded in anecdote, and seemed to be deeply versed in the movements of great personages. As may be readily supposed, he drew largely upon his imagination, and did not confine himself to the truth. She listened to his discourse, and was charmed. In other words, she wished to gaze into the depths of a horrible abyss, and had invited a murderer of women’s souls to lead her to the brink.
Fortescue soon guided the conversation to topics of fashionable life, and with consummate art drew a sketch of matrimonial intrigue—a sketch in which he took care to introduce none of those dark and terrible tints which form the background of such pictures in real life.
She remembered having heard similar narratives fall from the lips of persons she met with in London, when she sojourned there with Lady Marolyn and Aveline, but these were pure and innocent—no comparison to Mr. Fortescue’s.
And, as an experienced huntsman does not frighten his quarry by riding straight towards it, but rides round and round, gradually lessening the circle, till the deer having become familiarised with the dangerous object, no longer heeds it—so by imperceptible gradations he approached this foolish deer, who sat listening to all his wicked nonsense with open ears and wondering eyes.
I do not wish to analyse the infernal art with which he excited the senses of an innocent and guileless woman; many who read these pages might take that as a guide—others would refuse to accept it as a warning.
Mr. Fortescue presently poured into her ear a passionate declaration of attachment, which she ought not to have listened to. He hung over her, he placed his arm round her waist, and before she was aware of it, his lips met hers. She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and said—
“Mr. Fortescue, release me. This conduct is unpardonable. Pray—”
She ceased suddenly, for a dark shadow fell across the room, and they both looked up. It was Richard Ashbrook standing on the threshold.
“I am glad you have come,” cried his wife.
He made no reply, but with one hand gestured for her to leave the room.
She crept past him with her head bowed upon her breast.
For a few brief moments the farmer stood still as if to reflect. His face was white, but very calm. Presently he made towards the door, locked it, and thrust the key into his pocket; after this he drew down the blinds.
Fortescue, who was perfectly astounded at the sudden appearance of the farmer, was at no loss to comprehend that he was made a prisoner. Trusting to bravado to save him he hummed an air from the last new opera.
“You infamous, deceptive scoundrel,” cried Ashbrook; “I’ve half a mind to shoot ’ee as I would shoot down a fox or a wolf. It would be no more than you deserve.”
“Indeed, and why so?”
“You came here a stranger,” said Ashbrook, endeavouring as best he could to command his temper for a while; “I gave you a night’s rest unasked; for several weeks I have made you live with me, and have treated you to the best of my poor power; I have made my home your home—I have made my friends your friends.”
“I do not deny all this,” said Fortescue. “In point of fact, I admit it. But then, my honest yeoman, consider the honour of having a gentleman in your house. I have to return you many thanks for your kindness and hospitality.”
“A gentleman!” cried Ashbrook; “God keep me from such gentlemen! A blackguard, you mean—a gambler—and a thief!”
“Have a care, Mr. Ashbrook, as to what you say. There is such a thing as indicting a man for defamation of character.”
“Character! you’ve none to lose, you sneak. You’ve deceived my wife,” said the farmer, raising his voice; “ye’ve deceived me, poor fool that I have bin; ye’ve tried to disgrace us both for life.”
No.58.
Illust: ASHBROOK RECEIVING THE CHALLENGEASHBROOK RECEIVING THE CHALLENGE FROM “CAPTAIN BRADLEY.”
ASHBROOK RECEIVING THE CHALLENGE FROM “CAPTAIN BRADLEY.”
“That I deny. Assertions are one thing and proof is another—remember that, Mr. Ashbrook.”
“I call ye a coward and a dirty, contemptible hound, but I don’t intend to let ’ee off with hard words—I mean to give ’ee a few hard blows. You won’t forget Stoke Ferry, I’ll dare be sworn, for many a long day.”
“Ah, you are pugnaciously disposed, are you? Well, we can easily arrange matters. I have a pair of new trigger pistols upstairs, and am ready to give you satisfaction wherever and whenever you please.”
“Satisfaction, ye call it, you audacious varmint. Ah, ah! That’s a queer sort of satisfaction. Because you’ve done me wrong I’m to be shot at with a pistol. No, no, my man—I know a trick worth two of that. This is what I call satisfaction, you impudent monkey.”
He sprang to the fireplace and snatched down a stout ash stick which hung over the mantel-shelf, and which he made whistle a sinister melody.
“One minute, sir, if you please,” said the wretch, who soon began to tremble for the first time. “You accuse me of being a coward and a scoundrel because I have flirted with your wife. Pray may I inquire if you knew Mr. Philip Jamblin—he was murdered in Larchgrove-lane?”
“What if I did? Don’t ’ee say anything agen him.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. What of that?”
“Did he flirt with anybody? Answer me that.”
“Dall you, if you speak a word agen Philip, I’ll have your life, you cowardly dirty scoundrel. He aint here to take his own part, but I am here, and that’s just as well. Dare you speak of a murdered man to me his bosom friend, by all I hold most sacred, before you leave this room, you shall pay in part for the pain ye’ve made me bear.”
Mr. Fortescue was at no loss to divine that the farmer was in earnest. He whirled round the stout ash stick in a most menacing manner. The London gentleman sprang towards the window, which he endeavoured to open, but the farmer was too sharp for him. He caught Fortescue by the collar of his coat, and with herculean strength dragged him from the window, then he belaboured him most unmercifully with his stick, with which he rained a series of terrible blows on his back and shoulders.
Fortescue flew to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. On the instant he received a terrific blow on the wrist, the poker dropped from his hand, which by this time had been rendered powerless, and then another series of blows followed in quick succession.
If any man ever had a sound thrashing, Mr. Fortescue was the man.
“Get out of my house and never darken my doors again,” cried Ashbrook, opening the parlour door, and thrusting his visitor forcibly out. The latter did not want a second bidding. He made his exit without further ado. As he was passing the back kitchen which abutted out from the farmhouse, the girl Kitty, who had been watching for his appearance, flung a paii of dirty water over him.
“Take that, you dirty conceited puppy,” said she.
Dripping with wet and aching in every limb, Mr. Fortescue flew over the fields as if pursued by some wild animal, and was soon lost to sight.
“Joy go with him!” cried Kitty, “the dirty lying blackguard. I dont think it likely we shall be troubled with him agen, master.”
“I hope not,” said Ashbrook. “I fancy he’s had a pretty good dose.”
“And one as ell last him a long time,” observed the servant, retreating into the washhouse.
Patty Ashbrook remained sad and silent upon a seat in her own chamber, her face distorted with terror as she listened to the sound of heavy blows and the cries of the man who but a few moments before had been whispering loving words into her ear. She despised him now, but not more than she despised herself. For now she remembered every little act, every word of kindness her husband had ever bestowed upon her. Now she felt that she was an ungrateful wretch, that she deserved to be driven from her home, even as Mr. Fortescue had been.
This last thought flashed upon her like a flash of fire, and dried up the last glad warm drops of blood in her unhappy heart.
Oh, what a horrible fate it seemed to be—compelled to leave the house in which she had been happy from her earliest infancy—in which she had lived with those whom she loved and honoured most in the world!
She glanced tearfully round the room, as if to engrave everything it contained more firmly on her memory. Perhaps she might never enter that room again.
All was silent below. Then she heard the door open and shut; then the voice of Kitty; then another interval of silence.
There were then minutes of terrible silence. She heard a slow and solemn footstep upon the stairs. She held her breath; her tears ceased to flow.
She flung herself into a chair, and raised her eyes full of repentance to the pale calm face of her injured husband.
“I’ve got rid of un for good and for all; heaven be praised for that,” said Ashbrook.
“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed Patty; “beat me; beat me heavily, for I deserve it, but do not drive me from you. I could not live away from you.”
“I hope not,” returned he, placing his broad brown hand upon her shoulders. “Nobody would wish it—leastways not me.” His voice was gentle with love, tremulous with pity.
“I say I have got rid of that viper whom I ha’ bin foolish enough to cherish. I ought to be set down as a born idiot for my foolishness. But we are none on us wise at all times.”
“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed his wife. “You ought to blame me—which no doubt you do. I have been more to blame than you have; but can you forgive me, my dear, honest husband?”
“Can I forgive you?” cried Ashbrook. “You ha’ bin a good wife for me for five long years, Patty. You have worked hard for me by day and by night. When I’ve come home weary, and oftentimes, it may be, a bit ruffled in temper, you ha’ always had a sweet word and a kind kiss for me; and do you think, my lass, that I ha’ any right to forget all that, and let a silly, foolish hour or so blot out the thoughts and memories of five good years? No, no, my gell. We’ve been both to blame; I ha’ bin more foolish and blind than what you ha’ bin.”
He took her in his arms and cradled her on his manly breast.
“Oh, Richard,” she ejaculated—“my own dear, good Richard!”
“It was more my fault than yourn,” cried Ashbrook—“a deal more my fault. I know that now. I put faith in this—this deceivin’ varmint. I left him with ’ee. I gave him good chances to pison your mind, and to draw your love from me to him for a little while. More fool me. But your love’s all come back agen now—aint it, lass?—and stronger and warmer and truer than afore, if that be possible, which somehow I doant think it can?”
She did not answer him. Her head was upon his shoulder, and her face was covered with her beautiful brown hair. She was still weeping, “but now her tears were tears of joy.”
“My dear Patty,” cried the farmer. “Heaven be praised! you’ve bin saved from the teeth of the wolf.”