Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 509
“Well, I need not say no more than this: there’s them that’s quiet enough now, and will be, that if they thought I was Squire o’ Wyvern I’d make the world too hot to hold me. I’d rather be Harry Fairfield at fair and market than archbishop of hell, I can tell ye, havin’ no likin’ for fine titles and honour, and glory, wi’ a tethered leg and a sore heart; better to go your own gait, and eat your mouthful where ye find it, than go in gold wi’ a broken back, that’s all, and that’s truth. If ’twas otherwise I’d be down in the mouth, I can tell you, about the young gen-man upstairs, and I’d a’ liked his birthday no better than a shepherd loves a bright Candlemas; but as it is — no matter, ’tis better to me than a pot o’ gold, and I drink the little chap’s health, and I wish she had a sieve full o’ them, and that’s God’s truth, as I stand here,” and Harry backed the declaration with an oath.
“Well, I believe you, Harry,” said Mildred.
“And I’m glad o’t,” she added after a pause.
“I’m very glad — there has been ill blood o’er much in the family,” she resumed; “it’s time there should be peace and brotherhood, God knows — and — I’m glad to hear you speak like that, sir.”
And, so saying, she extended her dark, hard palm to him, and he took it, and laughed.
“Every man knows where his own shoe pinches,” said he; “’tis a shrewish world, old girl, and there’s warts and chilblains where no one guesses, but things won’t be for ever; ’tis a long lane, ye know, that has no turning, and the burr won’t stick always.”
“Ay, ay, Master Harry, as I’ve heard the old folks say, ‘Be the day never so long, at last cometh even-song.’”
“And how is the lady herself?” said he.
“As bad as can be, a’most,” answered Mildred.
“Who says so?” he asked.
“The doctor; he has no opinion of her, I’m afeared, poor little thing.”
“The doctor — does he? — but is he any good?”
“It’s Doctor Willett of Wykeford. He’s thought a deal of by most folk down here. I don’t know, I’m sure, but he seems very nice about her, I think, and kind, and looks after the baby too.”
“That’s right; I’m glad o’ that. I’d pay something myself rather than it should be neglected; and what does he say o’ the boy?”
“Doin’ very well — nothin’ against him; but, you know, ’tis only a few days, and o’er soon to judge yet a bit.”
“I wonder could she see me for a minute?”
“Hoot, man! How came that in your head? Why, the room’s dark, and she never speaks above a whisper, and not five words then, and only, may be, thrice in a day. Ye don’t know what way she is; ’tis just the turn o’ a halfpenny whether she’ll live till mornin’.”
“That’s bad. I didn’t think she could be that bad,” said he.
“She is, then.”
“‘Twould do her no harm to know that there’s some rent — about thirty pounds — due from Riddleswake. I’ll give Tom a bit of a note to Farmer Wycraft, and he’ll pay it. It’s settled to her for her life — I know that — and she’ll be wantin’ money; and see you that the child wants nothing. I have lots o’ reasons why that child should do well. This ain’t bad beer, I can tell you. Another mug of it wouldn’t hurt me, and if you can make me out a mouthful of anything; I’m beastly hungry.”
A bit of cold corned beef, some cheese, and a loaf Mildred Tarnley produced, and Harry made a hearty meal in the kitchen, not disturbing that engrossing business by conversation, while old Mildred went to and fro, into the scullery and back again, and busied herself about her saucepans and dishes.
“Now get me a pen and ink and a bit o’ paper. There’s no one in the house will be the worse of a little money, and I’ll write that note.” And so he did, and handed it to Mildred with the air of a prince who was bestowing a gift.
“There! That will make the mare go for a while longer; and, look ye, where’s old Dulcibella Crane? I’d like to shake hands wi’ her before I go.”
“Upstairs, wi’ her mistress.”
“Tell her to come down and see me for a minute; and mind, old Tarnley, ye must write to me often — tomorrow and next day — and — where’s my hat? — on my head, by Jove — and so on; for if anything should happen — if little Alice should founder, you know — there should be some one, when she’s off the hooks, to look after things a bit; and the Governor won’t do nothing — put that out o’ yer head — and ‘twill all fall on my shoulders; and send her down to me — old Dulcibella Crane, I mean — for I’m going, and unless I’m wanted I mayn’t see ye here for many a day.”
Thus charged, Mildred Tarnley went away, and in a few minutes old Dulcibella appeared.
From her, after he had examined her as to the state of the lady upstairs, and of her baby, he exacted the same promise as that which Mildred had made him — a promise to write often to Wyvern.
He did not mind making her the same odd confidence which he had made to Mildred. There was no need, he thought, for Dulcibella was soft-hearted, and somewhat soft-headed, too, and by no means given to suspicion; and as she had not the evil that attends shrewdness, neither had she the reliability, and she was too much given to talking, and his secret would then become more public than he cared to make it.
“And tell the mistress I wish her joy, do you mind, and I’d like to stand godfather to the boy whenever the christenin’ is, and to put me to any work she thinks I’m fit for; and tell her I wrote about a handful o’ rent that’s coming to her; and goodbye, and take care o’ yourself; and who’s nursin’ the baby?”
“We feeds it wi’ goat’s milk and sich like, by direction of the doctor. Wouldn’t ye like to see it?”
“Not this time — I’m off — but — who’s taking charge of him?”
“Among us the poor little darling is, but mostly me.”
“Well, that’s right, and look after it well, and I’ll give ye a bit o’ money when — when it’s on a little, and don’t forget to write; and ye needn’t say nout to old Mildred, for she’s goin’ to write too, and might take huff if she knew that you was writin’ also, do you see?”
“Yes, Master Harry, surely none shall know, and I’m thinkin’ ye would like to see it, and it won’t be nothin’ the worse, ye’ll find, and it is such a darlin’.”
“And so like its poor papa that’s gone, eh? But I haven’t no time, dear, this bout, and you may give his worship my kind regards, and tell him the more he thrives the better I’m pleased, and old chimnies won’t stand for ever, and he won’t be long kept out of his own, and I’ll keep them aloof that would make or meddle or mar, and goodbye, old Dulcie Crane, and mind what I said.”
And clapping her on the shoulder with his strong hand, he smiled after his fashion, and wagged his head and strode into the yard, mounted his horse, and was soon far away on the road from Carwell Grange.
CHAPTER VI.
BERTHA VELDERKAUST.
Harry Fairfield, when, crossing Cressley Common, he reached the road that diverges eastward, took that turn, and rode towards Hatherton.
Surly enough he looked when he slackened his pace to a walk at the foot of the long low hill that interposes between the common and that town.
He had a short pipe in his pocket, with a big bowl, and a metal cover to it, into which he stuffed some pinches of tobacco — a shilling went a good way in that sort of smoking, and Harry was economical — and soon his pipe was in full play.
This narcotic helped his cogitative powers, and he had a good deal to think about. He was going to see his old friend Bertha Velderkaust, in her new situation, and he was considering how best to approach her.
From such ruminations — too vague and irregular to be reduced to logical sequence and arrangement — there arise, nevertheless, conclusions by no means unimportant, and quite distinct enough. By this time he had smoked his pipe out, and looked down from the summit of this rising ground upon the pretty town spreading among the trees, with its old tower and steeple, its court-house, its parsonage, and that high-walled stronghold on the right, in which the object of his visit was at present secluded.
When, having complied with all formalities, he obtained an entrance, and obtained permission to visit that person, it was her pleasure to keep him waiting for some time for his audience. Harry grew cross and impatient, the more so as he heard that she had a friend with her, drinking tea, and reading the newspaper to her.
As Harry Fairfield was one of those persons who are averse to sacrificing themselves without a good consideration, the reader will conclude that his object was not altogether to serve the “old soldier.” If it had been only that, I think he would have left the town of Hatherton re infecta. As it was, he waited, and at last was admitted.
This lady, Bertha Velderkaust, chose to be known among her neighbours in misfortune as Madame Bertha Fairfield of Wyvern, which style and title she preferred to that by which she had been committed to the safe keeping of the gaoler.
When Harry Fairfield stepped into her small apartment he found her dressed and bedizened in a way that a little surprised him.
She had on a sky-blue satin dress, caught up at one side with a bunch of artificial flowers. She had a lace scarf and a lace coiffure lying flat across her head, with a miniature coronet of Roman pearl in the centre, and lappets depending at each side. She had a double necklace of enormous Roman pearls about her throat, and a pair of pink velvet slippers, embroidered with beads and bugles, and this tawdry figure sat on the side of her truckle bed to receive him, with the air of a princess in a pantomime. She accumulated her finery in this way, I think, for the purpose of impressing the people about the prison with a due sense of her position and importance. It may not have been quite without its effect.
“Hullo! madame, I came to tell you some news,” said he, as soon as the door was closed. “But, by the makins! you ‘most took my breath away at first sight o’ ye.”
“Pity to have so nice a man breathless — deplorable pity!” — or biddy, as she pronounced it. “Suppose you go away. I did not ask you to come and get your breath again in the air of my place.”
“What place may that be — not Hoxton Old Town, hey?”
“Not at all — Wyvern, dear child?” she said, with a quiet sneer.
“Oh, thank ye — yes — well I will, I think, take a mouthful there as you are so good.”
As he concluded this speech Master Harry put out his tongue at the blind lady with a grimace that was outrageous.
“I’ll hide my name no longer,” she said, “I’m Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern.”
“That’s as it may be,” he answered, serenely.
“I say, I’m Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern,” repeated she.
“Boo!” answered Harry.
“Beast! By that noise what do you mean?”
“I’ll tell ye, by-and-by. Come, you mustn’t be cross, it wastes time.”
“More time than we know what to do with in this house,” she sneered.
“Well, that’s true for some, I’ll not deny; but there’s some as is pretty well worked I hear — eh? — and so long as we baint, we may endure the leisure, for as bad as that is, business here, I’m told, is a deal worse,” and Harry laughed.
“Pleasant was my Harry always,” again sneered the lady.
“And ye heard of poor Charlie, of course?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. Everyone is not like you. I did hear. I don’t thank you,” she answered, tartly, and turned her pale, malignant face toward him.
“But, dear girl, I could not. There was difficulties, eyes a-watchin’ on all hands, and ears cocked, and I knew you could not be long without knowing. So you heard; but mayhap you haven’t heard this — there’s a child born o’ that marriage.”
“Marriage!” and with an oath the big Dutchwoman burst into a discordant laugh.
For a moment Harry was alarmed, but the laugh was not hysterical — purely emotional, and an escape for pent-up scorn and fury.
“Well, any how there’s a child — a boy — and a fine hale little chap, wi’ a big bald head and a bawlin’ mouth as ever a mother hugged — the darlin’.”
“Well, let the brat lie on the dung heap, you’ll not lift him,” said the lady.
“I’ll not meddle or make. I’m not over-hot about Wyvern. I’d rather have a pocket full o’ money than a house full o’ debts any day; and anyhow there he is, the four bones that’s to walk off with my share o’t.”
“I should have got mourning,” said Bertha Velderkaust, speaking from some hidden train of thought.
“Bah! No one to see you here,” said Harry.
“If I had money or credit, I’d have got it,” she said.
“That’s very affectionate of you,” said Harry; “but why do you dress like that — why do you dress like the lady wi’ the glass slipper, Cinderella, at the king’s ball, in the story book?”
“I should dress, you think, like Cinderella over the coalscuttle?”
“Well, I wouldn’t set the folk a laughing when I was in no laughing humour myself — not that it makes much odds, and I do suppose it don’t matter — not it.”
“It does matter something, perhaps, and perhaps nothing; but I know who I am, and I won’t let myself down,” said she. “I don’t want to lose myself among these people; I’ll keep myself distinct. I’m too high to put my foot in the mud.”
“Too high to put your foot in the mud — too high to put your foot on the pavement,” said Harry, mischievously, with his eyes on this impulsive lady, and hitching his chair off a little to secure a fair start. “You’ll be too high, I’m thinkin’, to get your foot to ground at all, one o’ these days, if you don’t look sharp. It’s too high a flight, I’m told, to touch terra firma wi’ the top o’ your toe — the gallows, I mean — and that’s what you’re coming to quick. I’m afeard.”
As Harry concluded, he stood up, intending to get out, if possible, without the indignity of coming to hand-grips with a woman.
The Herculean lady, in sky-blue satin and Roman pearls, leaned forward with sharpened features, but neither extended her arm nor attempted to rise. Then she sighed deeply, and leaned with her shoulders to the wall.
“Off in a coach for this bout,” thought Harry.
“Thank you, kind lad, always the same,” she sneered, quietly. “You wish it, no doubt, but, no, you don’t think it. I know better.”
“Why the devil should I wish you hanged, Bertha? Don’t be a fool; you’re not in my way, and never can be. There’s that boy, and, for reasons of my own, I’m glad he is — I’m glad he’s where he is — and Wyvern will be for him and not for me — never!”
“Harry, dear, you know quite well,” she drawled, softly, with a titter, “you’ll poison that boy if you can.”
“You lie!” said Harry, turning scarlet, and then as suddenly pale. “You lie! — and so that’s answered.”
Here followed a silence. The woman was not angry, but she tittered again and nodded her head.
“Wyvern’s out o’ my head. I never cared about it. I had my own reasons. I never did,” he swore, furiously, striking his hand on the table. “And I won’t see that boy ruined — my flesh and blood — my own nephew. No, no, Bertha, that would never do; the boy must have his own. I’ll see you made comfortable, but that lay won’t do — you’ll find it won’t pay nohow.”
“Speak out, man — what do you mean?” said Bertha.
“Come, come, come, Bertha, you’re no fool,” wheedled he; “there isn’t a sounder head from this to London; and though you be a bit hotheaded, you’re not as bad as you’d have us believe— ‘taint the worst, always, that has an o’er-hasty hand. Why, bless ye, girl, I’d be sorry ye were hurt, and I’ll help to get ye out o’ this, without scathe or scorn, if you’ll let me.”
“Well, come; what’s in your mind, Harry Vairfield?” she asked.
“I tell ye what it is, it can do you no good, no how, bein’ hard on that boy, and I know, and you know, you never were married to poor Charlie.”
“You lie!” cried the lady, bitterly. So they were quits on the point of honour.
“Now, Bertha, lass, come now — reason, reason; don’t you be in a hurry, and just listen to reason, and I’ll make it better to you than fifty marriages.”
“Don’t you think I have no advice — I’ve engaged Mr. Wynell, the best attorney in Hatherton; I know what I’m about.”
“The better you know it, the better I’m pleased; but the lawyerfolk likes always a bit of a row — they seldom cries kiss and be friends until their hands be well greased, and their clients has a bellyful o’ law; therefore it’s better that friends should put their heads together and agree before it comes to that sort o’ milling, and I tell ye, ye shall be cared for; I’ll see to it, if you don’t be kickin’ up no rows about nothing.”
She laughed a quiet, scornful laugh.
“Oh ho! Master Harry, poor little fellow! he’s frightened, is he?”
“You’re damnably mistaken,” said he. “Frightened, indeed! I’ll see whose frightened: I know there was no marriage — I know it, and it won’t do tryin’ it on me, you’ll just get yourself into the wrong box; where’s the use of runnin’ your head into a cotton bag?”
“Cotton bag your own head. Who’s to do it?”
“They’ll be clumsy fingers that can’t tie that knot, lass. Come, you’re a clever girl, you’re not to be talking — not like a fool. I know everything about it. If you try that on, it will turn out bad. ‘Taint easy to green Harry Fairfield; I don’t think he was ever yet fooled by a lass but where he chose to be fooled, and it’s pretty well allowed there’s no use trying to bully him.”
“I ought to like you, if all that be so,” said she, “for you are very like my own self.”
“I’m not tryin’ to bully you, girl, nor to sell ye neither; ye were always a bit rash, and too ready wi’ your hand; but them’s not the worst folk goin’. We Fairfields has a touch o’ it, and we shouldn’t be o’er hard on quick-tempered folk like that. There was no lass that ever I met, gentle or simple, that could match ye for good looks and pleasant talk, and ye dress so beautiful, and if ye had but your eyes this minute, you’d have who ye liked at your feet.”
