CHAPTER V.
Henry Hindes’ house was the most remarkable in Hampstead. It was called ‘The Old Hall,’ and was supposed to have been built more than two hundred years before. It was situated within ten minutes’ walk of Mr Crampton’s place, ‘The Cedars,’ but the two mansions belonged to different eras of the world’s history. ‘The Cedars’ was fitted in the most luxurious style. Everything that money could possibly buy, or build up, had been added to it, to increase its convenience and comfort. It revelled in glass houses, expensive out-buildings, swimming and other baths, and all the luxuries of the prevailing season. But everything about it was painfully new. Mr Crampton hadpurchased a freehold of the ground, and built ‘The Cedars’ for himself, or rather for the daughter who was to come after him. Often had he said to his wife that when their Jenny married, they would find a smaller place for themselves, and make ‘The Cedars’ part of her marriage portion. Consequently, he had lavished money upon it, letting the builders and upholsterers have their own way in everything, because it was only so much more for Jenny, when she came, like a young queen, into the property her father’s love had prepared for her.
But ‘The Old Hall’ was a very different sort of dwelling-place. Henry Hindes was a man of refined tastes and culture, a man who, before he had come into his father’s business, had travelled much and seen the world of art and science, and cultivated his mind, and raised his ideas of beauty and workmanship. He hated business and all its details, and, had it not been for his children’s sake, and the loss it would prove to them, would have sold his share of itfor whatever it might fetch, and given up his life to the pursuit of his fancy. As it was, he refreshed himself, in the intervals of less congenial work, by making his home as beautiful as he could, but in a very different fashion from that of the Cramptons.
‘The Old Hall’ had low-roofed rooms, wainscotted with black oak, into which he would not permit the innovation of gas, and ghostly corridors that ran the whole length of the building, and stained glass windows which let in very little light, and made the house dark and gloomy in the eyes of such Philistines as could not appreciate medieval customs, and the relics of barbarism which made the delight of its owner’s heart.
He was the possessor, too, of an admirable collection of paintings, mostly of grim and melancholy subjects, but valuable in their way, and well in accordance with the mummies, sarcophagæ, curious gems and stones, and other curiosities which he had gathered on his travels and stored up inremembrance of them. His was a charming household, and his collection of odds and ends were the only gloomy things in it. His wife, Hannah Hindes, was a cultured and intelligent gentlewoman, eminently fond of him, and regarding his powerful brain and capacity for business with an admiration which bordered on reverence; and he was the father of three handsome and healthy children, all of whom he loved, and one of whom he idolised—to wit, Master Walter Hindes, his only son, an infant of some two years old.
To see Henry Hindes with this child in his fine old garden was to see him at his best—he was so partial to floriculture, and such a student of botany; though in this, as in other things, he would not allow fashion to trample sweetness and commonsense under foot. In the large, shady garden of ‘The Old Hall’ were to be found all sorts of flowers, growing together in the same bed. No ribbon borders or collections of prize begonias, or pelargoniums, of giant blossoms, or dwarfed bushes, transformedit into the semblance of a nurseryman’s plot of ground; but sweet-smelling herbs grew amongst the choicer plants, and high and low bloomed side by side, as they used to do in the long ago.
In the summer weather, Henry Hindes spent almost all his spare time in his garden with his children, and was apparently quite happy with his own thoughts and them. Hannah Hindes was a woman who never grated on her husband’s finer sensibilities. She was loving, tender and conscientious; but she seldom obtruded herself or her opinions on him, and never in opposition to his own. She was always there when needed, calm and intelligent, ready to give advice but not eager to thrust it down one’s throat; a restful sort of woman for a man to come home to after a hard and perhaps harassing day’s work.
And she had in her turn an admirable husband, for Mr Hindes was mild-tempered and indulgent; never found fault with anything his wife did, or wished to do, and was always quick to think ofher comfort and that of her children.
A few mornings after the dance at the Bouchers’, they were strolling together under the shade of an avenue of elm trees, which formed the approach to the house, and he was telling her of his interview with Frederick Walcheren. One of the little girls, Elsie, was holding her mother by the hand, whilst the other, Laura, was wandering in front of them, and the son and heir, was perched on his father’s shoulder, enjoying a ride. In the length and breadth of England, you could hardly have found a more united, or happier family.
‘I did not much relish the task, Hannah,’ he was saying to his wife, ‘when Mr Crampton entrusted it to me, for I anticipated a tough battle with the young gentleman. A man does not particularly care to have a stranger intermeddle with his love affairs—’
‘Oh! but Mr Walcheren could never look on you as a stranger,’ interposed Mrs Hindes, ‘he must know how very intimateyou are with the family and that you have known dear Jenny almost since she was born.’
‘Not quite that, Hannah,’ said her husband, wincing, for he did not like to be reminded that he was ‘getting on,’ ‘but long enough, at all events, to act as her father’s ambassador. Anyhow, I thought he would resent my speaking to him, and perhaps cause a bit of a scandal; but, to my surprise, he took it so quietly and so much as a matter of course, that I begin to think he was never in earnest, and was rather glad than otherwise, of an opportunity to withdraw without dishonour.’
‘Then he must be a scoundrel!’ replied Mrs Hindes, with unusual vehemence for her gentle nature, ‘for I am witness that he behaved to dear Jenny just as if he were in earnest. I have been with them often,youknow, Henry, when there has been no one else by, and if ever a man pretended to be in love with a woman, Mr Walcheren did!’
‘Anyone would “spoon” a little, with such a pretty girl, if she gave him the opportunity, my dear,’ replied Mr Hindes, ‘and our dear Jenny is a bit of a flirt, you must allow that. I wouldn’t trust her with a grandfather, if I valued his peace of mind.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “spoon,”’ said Mrs Hindes, who professed to understand no modern slang, ‘but he looked at her and spoke to her as if he loved her and wished her to love him, and, if he meant nothing by it, all I can say is that he deserves a much worse reprimand than a mere hint to cease his visits at the house. Why, he might have broken darling Jenny’s heart!’
‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed her husband; ‘she doesn’t care for the fellow!’
‘Who can say if she cares for him or not, Henry? Women don’t run about, as a rule, telling everyone they meet of their predilections for gentlemen who have not yet proposed for them.’
‘But, good God! do you mean to insinuate that the girl’s happiness is likely to be affected by this business? You must be mistaken! Jenny would never be such a fool as to risk losing all her father’s money for the sake of the first young jackanapes who says he loves her!’
‘She may like the jackanapes better than the money, Henry. I don’t think women stick at much where their hearts are concerned. Besides, has not Mr Walcheren a fortune of his own?’
‘Perhaps—I don’t know—unless he has already made ducks and drakes of it,’ replied Henry Hindes, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. ‘But Jenny has never thought of him seriously, I am sure of it! Her father was telling me only yesterday, that her demeanour has not changed in the least since he told her she must give him up, but is as cheerful and lively as usual. That doesn’t look as if she was very miserable over the loss, eh, Hannah?’
‘Perhaps she does not believe she shall lose him,’ observed his wife.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing particular, only Jenny may derive comfort from looking forward to the time when she will be of age and able to please herself. It seems unnatural to me that they should give each other up so cheerfully, and it is not Jenny’s disposition either. You seem to forget what a self-willed little mortal she is! And Mr Walcheren is so good-looking too. I am sure Jenny has positively raved to me about his beauty. And where will he find such another girl? I thought she looked more like an angel than a woman at the Bouchers’ on Wednesday. So pure and sweet and fresh in that white dress, and with those lovely eyes of hers shining like two stars. Don’t you think she has the very loveliest eyes in the world, Hal?’
‘Yes! yes! very pretty, certainly; but handsome is as handsome does, Hannah,and I should be dreadfully grieved if I thought Jenny could be capable of wilfully deceiving her parents. It would break their hearts. If you fancy she may be (and you women know best about each other as a rule), tell me so, and I will warn the Cramptons. It will be my duty to do so, for they are the oldest friends I possess.’
Mrs Hindes was just about to answer her husband’s query, when they were both startled by the appearance of Mr Crampton coming up the drive towards them. There was evidently something unusual about his visit. In the first place, the old man was walking, a most unheard of exertion on his part, and, in the second, he would, in the ordinary course of events, have met his partner in a few minutes in the train, as this was Saturday, when they made a point of going to the City together, in order to pay the workmen’s wages, and set things generally right for the ensuing week.
‘My dear Crampton! what on earth isthe matter?’ cried Henry Hindes, putting down his child, and hastening to his partner.
Mr Crampton’s face, which was always of a fine roseate hue, was now positively purple, and, from fast walking and agitation, he found it impossible to articulate. Hannah feared he was going to have a fit, and urged her husband to get him to the house before he attempted to tell them what was amiss. Even when he was placed in a library chair, it was some minutes before he could find breath to speak, and, meanwhile, the distress pictured on his features was unmistakable.
‘My dear friend,’ said Mr Hindes, with the greatest concern, ‘are you ill? Is anything wrong at home? For God’s sake, speak, and put us out of this terrible suspense!’
‘She’s gone, Hindes! she’s gone!’ gasped Mr Crampton at last.
‘Gone? Who? Not Jenny?’ cried Mrs Hindes.
The old man nodded his head.
‘Not dead?’ said Hindes, turning as white as a sheet.
‘No! No! Gone off with that scoundrel Walcheren,’ replied Mr Crampton, who had somewhat recovered himself. ‘Didn’t you tell me that he promised to give up all pretensions to her hand, and to leave off visiting her or writing to her?’
‘He did, most emphatically!’ said Hindes. ‘I was just telling my wife about it.’
‘And so did she—so did Jenny,’ continued the father, in a broken voice; ‘and they were both lying to us, sir—both lying! She has left us for him. She writes she is married to him—that it is of no use our attempting any opposition, and we may keep our worthless money for ourselves—and our broken hearts too, I suppose,’ he added, in a lower tone.
‘But it is impossible—there must be some mistake—how did it happen?’ cried Henry Hindes, excitedly.
‘Well, they must have managed to have some communication with each othersince Wednesday, for the girl joined him yesterday. My wife is such a fool—God forgive me for calling her by such a name!—that she never exercised the least supervision over the child, and yesterday morning it seems that Jenny said she was going to her dressmaker’s, and they let her set off alone with Brunell. She told him on reaching town—this is the man’s story, remember—to put up the horses, and call for her at the Burtons in Cromwell Road, at five o’clock. He was there to his time, and waited outside for an hour, when a caretaker came to the door and asked him what he was waiting for. On his telling her, she said that no young lady had been there that day—that the family was still out of town, and she didn’t know when they were likely to be home again. On hearing that, Brunell drove to Madame Costello’s, but learned there that Jenny had left directly he drove off in the morning, and had not returned since. A gentleman, her cousin, the woman said, had fetched her away in a cab.The man came back with this story, and you may imagine the night we have had. My wife was sure it was all right, but I knew the end from the beginning.’
‘Don’t despair, sir, until you are quite sure,’ said Hannah, with ready sympathy.
‘Iamsure, Mrs Hindes. We sat up all night, and the first post this morning brought us that.’
He threw down a scribbled note on the table as he spoke, and Hannah picked it up, for her husband seemed too paralysed at the calamity that had overtaken his friends, to be able to do anything. The note ran thus:—
‘Dear Father and Mother,—I could not give Frederick up, as you desired me to do, because we love each other too much, so we were married this morning at the Earl’s Court Registrar Office, where you can see the entry if you doubt my word. Don’t be too angry with me. Remember I am your only child.—Yours affectionately,Jenny Walcheren.’
‘Dear Father and Mother,—I could not give Frederick up, as you desired me to do, because we love each other too much, so we were married this morning at the Earl’s Court Registrar Office, where you can see the entry if you doubt my word. Don’t be too angry with me. Remember I am your only child.—Yours affectionately,
Jenny Walcheren.’
‘That’s a nice letter for a man to receive, who has idolised his child for twenty years, isn’t it, Mrs Hindes?’ asked Mr Crampton sarcastically. ‘Remember she is my only child; indeed, I’m not likely to forget it, I can tell Miss Jenny that. And I’ll never see her again, not if I live another fifty years!’
‘Oh, don’t say that. You don’t know what may happen to alter your mind,’ said Hannah, as she took the old man’s hand in hers and pressed it warmly. ‘You love her dearly, and she loves you. Things will not look so black when you are more used to them. After all, Mr Walcheren comes of a good family, and—’
‘And is a Papist,’ interrupted Mr Crampton angrily, ‘a member of the faith which I despise and abhor and contemn—the faith which will bring my wretched daughter down to hell with himself. No, Mrs Hindes, my dear; you mean kindly, but don’t talk to me of ever seeing this matter in a better light.’
‘But she is under age,’ said HenryHindes, speaking for the first time. ‘How could he marry her without the written consent of her guardians?’
‘By a lie, of course. He must have sworn she was of age. It came natural to a Papist, no doubt. They’re made of lies, religion and all! It’s a proper beginning for a life of deception and ingratitude.’
‘But if the licence has been obtained under false pretences, Crampton,’ said Mr Hindes eagerly, ‘it may not yet be too late to set it aside. It may be possible to force him to return your daughter to you, at all events until she is of age. I don’t know the law accurately on this point, but I can go to town at once and inquire, and if there is a chance—if she could be returned to you—’
Mr Hindes’ urbanity seemed to have forsaken him at this juncture, for he trembled so violently that his very teeth chattered.
‘And do you suppose that I would take her back?’ cried Mr Crampton, vehemently. ‘What! take the casketwithout the jewel! Receive my daughter—no longer only my daughter, but that man’s plaything—in her dishonoured home? Never! I will see her dead first! I will stand by thankfully, and watch her coffin lowered into the ground, sooner than acknowledge her again as my child. I have no child now. My Jenny, in whom I took such pride, for whom I have made money and treasured and garnered it up, is gone from me. She is no longer mine. She is Walcheren’s wife. I have lost her more effectually than if she had been taken from me by death, as her brothers and sisters were, and never, so help me God! will I see her of my own free will, in this world again.’
He was fuming and raging in his despair, and Hannah Hindes motioned to her husband, to do or say something to calm the old man. But Henry Hindes remained as silent and motionless, as if he had been carved in stone. Then she attempted the task herself.
‘Dear Mr Crampton,’ she whispered, laying her gentle hand on his knotted one, ‘surely you are going too far. This terrible disappointment has come upon you too suddenly, but try to look at it in a more reasonable light. Jenny has done very, very wrong; no one could think otherwise, but you must not speak of her as if she were abandoned to sin. She is honourably married, remember; and she is so young, that perhaps she did not view the fault of rebelling against your authority from so serious a point of view as we do. Mr Walcheren doubtless persuaded her that it was only a venial error, which you would soon forgive, for I cannot believe that she could ever forget your great love for her, nor hers for you.’
She smoothed the old man’s palm with a motherly touch as she spoke, and her soft voice and manner served in a measure to soothe his extreme agitation.
‘You are a good woman, Mrs Hindes, my dear,’ he replied, more calmly, ‘but my daughter must abide by the step she has taken, however this fellow cajoled her into it. She knew well enough that I would never give my consent to her marriage with a d—d Papist. She gave me her solemn promise, too, to give up all communication with him. She lied to me, Mrs Hindes, as the man lied to your husband, and I renounce them both—I renounce them both! Henceforth, I have no child. Heaven took five from me, and the devil’s got the last.’
And with that Mr Crampton drew forth a red silk handkerchief and buried his face in it.
‘But what is to be done?’ inquired Henry Hindes, ‘what is to be done?’
Hannah glanced round at him in astonishment. His full, deep voice seemed all of a sudden to have become thin and squeaky.
‘Mr Crampton seems to think that we can do nothing, dearest,’ she answered.
‘But some sort of reply must be sent to her letter,’ he continued, ‘or she may present herself at any moment in Hampstead. She is very impetuous, you know, Crampton, and will not easily believe that you can be seriously angry with her. We must prevent a scandal if possible. You had better write to her, or see her once, just to come to an understanding, that you may know what to expect, and she also.’
‘I will never see her, nor write to her again,’ said Mr Crampton.
‘Henry, couldyounot do so?’ asked his wife, pleadingly. ‘If Mr Crampton consents to it, could you not first verify the marriage, and then see poor Jenny, and tell her her father’s decision? Someone ought surely to do it.’
‘Where does she write from?’ asked Mr Hindes.
‘From the Castle Warden Hotel at Dover, whence they will probably cross over to Paris. If you follow them it should be at once. Will you go? Shall I get your portmanteau ready?’
She loved the girl, and cherished a secret hope that, through her husband’s intervention, a reconciliation might be effected between the daughter and her parents.
‘I am at Mr Crampton’s service,’ said Mr Hindes.
‘What do you expect to issue from the proceeding?’ asked the old man, in a muffled voice. ‘I will never receive her back at “The Cedars.” It is of no use giving her any false hopes, for my decision is irrevocable. She is dead to me from this time forward.’
‘Will her mother consent to that, sir?’
‘If she does not she must join her daughter, for I will have no one who associates with Papists in my house. I would as soon cherish a brood of vipers. But I do not anticipate my wife being so ungrateful as to desert me in this extremity.’
‘But if Jenny—if your daughter, on hearing your decision, and learning that it is unalterable, should elect to give upher husband and return to the protection of her parents—what then, sir?’
‘There is no chance of it,’ said the old man.
‘I am not so sure of that. Our childhood’s affections are generally the strongest. She may be repenting the step she has taken even now. If I see her and find she wishes to come home again—what then?’
‘I do not say that, in such a case, I should absolutely refuse to receive her, but it would be only on the very strictest conditions. And you would let me know first? You would not bring me face to face with her without any preparation, for, by the Lord, Hindes, I would not trust myself to say what I might do in such a case.’
‘No,’ replied Hindes, ‘I promise you I will not act in any way without your consent. But I will go down to Dover, and see if it is possible to have an interview with her alone. If Mr Walcheren is present I have no hopes of success.’
‘Don’t mention the fellow’s name!’ exclaimed Mr Crampton. ‘The very sound of it makes me feel like a murderer. I can conceive at this moment nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to squeeze the last breath out of his vile body.’
He rose to leave then, tottering as if the fatal intelligence had added twenty years to his existence.
‘Don’t walk home. Let me order the carriage. It won’t be ten minutes, and then it can take Henry to the station,’ said Hannah, kindly.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ replied Mr Crampton, reseating himself. ‘I do not really think I am equal to the exertion. To think that a rebellious girl has the power to sap a man’s strength in this manner.’
‘The news has been a shock to all of us,’ returned Hannah. ‘My husband looks almost as bad as you do. Henry, you must take something before you start. Ring the bell and tell Simmonds to bringsome brandy and soda. Your face is positively ghastly. What shall I put up for you? Shall you stay the night?’
‘No, I think not; but, perhaps, I may. Just a shirt and a brush and comb, please, nothing more. I am so grieved for the Cramptons,’ said her husband to her, in a lower tone, ‘so deeply, deeply grieved. This will break their hearts. I shouldn’t wonder if it were the death of both of them.’
‘Yes, yes; poor, dear, old people, they loved her so,’ rejoined Hannah, with the tears in her eyes, ‘and we shall feel it terribly, too, Henry, when we have time to realise that it is true.’
‘Oh! that’s all nonsense,’ said her husband, roughly. ‘It is of them we have to think. What can it matter to us? Sooner or later she must have married someone, andwehave no especial antipathy to Papists. But there is no time to discuss the matter now. Do as I tell you, and let me be off.’
And in another five minutes the two partners in the firm of Hindes & Crampton were driving down the elm-tree road together.