Cursed by a Fortune Part 55

"I'm sure n.o.body could have been so ill and suffered so much before,"

she said, "and I'm growing so white, and thin, and ugly, and old looking, and I'm sure I shall have to go about with a crutch; and it's so lonely with Pierce always going out to see old women and old men who are not half so bad as I am; and I wish I was dead! Oh, dear, oh, oh, dear, I wonder whether it hurts much to die. If it does, I'll ask Pierce to give me some laudanum to put me out of my misery, and--Oh, who's that?"

A carriage had drawn up at the gate, and she leaned forward to see.

"Mrs Wilton's carriage," she said, quickly growing interested, "and poor Pierce out. Oh, dear, how vexatious it is, when he wants patients so badly! I wonder who's ill now. It can't be that little wretch, because I saw him ride by an hour ago, and stare at the place; and it can't be Mr Wilton, because he always goes over to Dixter market on Fridays. It must be Mrs Wilton herself."

"If you please, miss, here's Missus Wilton," said the tall, gawky girl, just emanc.i.p.ated from the village schools to be Jenny's maid-of-all-work and nurse, and the lady in question entered with her village basket upon her arm.

"Ah! my dear child!" she cried, bustling across the room, putting her basket on the table, and then bobbing down to kiss Jenny, who sat up, frowning and stiff. "No, no, don't get up."

"I was not going to, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, coldly; "I can't."

"Think of that, now," cried the visitor, drawing a chair forward, and carefully spreading her silks and furs as she sat down; "and I've been so dreadfully unneighbourly in not coming to see you, though I did not know you had been so bad as this. You see, I've had such troubles of my own to attend to that I couldn't think of anything else; but it all came to me to-day that I had neglected you shamefully, and so I said to myself, I'd come over at once, as Mr Wilton and my son were both out, and bring you a bit of chicken, and a bottle of wine, and the very last bunch of grapes before it got too mouldy in the vinery, and here I am."

"Yes, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, stiffly; "but if you please, I am not one of the poor people of the parish."

"Why, no, my dear, of course not; but whatever put that in your head?"

"The wine, Mrs Wilton."

"But it's the best port, my dear--not what I give to the poor."

"And the bit of chicken, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, viciously.

"But it isn't a bit, my dear; it's a whole one," said the lady, looking troubled.

"A cold one, left over from last night's dinner," said Jenny, half hysterically.

"Indeed, no, my dear," cried the visitor, appealingly; "it isn't a cooked one at all, but a nice, young Dorking c.o.c.kerel from the farm."

"And a bunch of mouldy grapes," cried Jenny, pa.s.sionately, bursting into a fit of sobbing, "just as if I were widow Gee!"

"Why, my dear child, I--oh, I see, I see; you're only just getting better, and you're lonely and low, and it makes you feel fractious and cross, and I know. There, there, there, my poor darling! I ought to have come before and seen you, for I always did like to see your pretty, little, merry face, and there, there, there!" she continued, as she knelt by the chair, and in a gentle, motherly way, drew the little, thin invalid to her expansive breast, kissing and fondling and cooing over her, as she rocked her to and fro, using her own scented handkerchief to dry the tears.

"That's right. Have a good cry, my dear. It will relieve you, and you'll feel better then. I know myself how peevish it makes one to be ill, with no one to tend and talk to you; but you won't be angry with me now for bringing you the fruit and wine, for indeed, indeed, they are the best to be had, and do you think I'd be so purse-proud and insulting as to treat you as one of the poor people? No, indeed, my dear, for I don't mind telling you that I'm only going to be a poor woman myself, for things are to be very sadly altered, and when I come to see you, if I'm to stay here instead of going to the workhouse, there'll be no carriage, but I shall have to walk."

"I--I--beg your pardon, Mrs Wilton," sobbed Jenny. "I say cross things since I have been so ill."

"Of course you do, my precious, and quite natural. We women understand it. I wish the gentlemen did; but dear, dear me, they think no one has a right to be cross but them, and they are, too, sometimes. You can't think what I have to put up with from Mr Wilton and my son, though he is a dear, good boy at heart, only spoiled. But you're getting better, my dear, and you'll soon be well."

"Yes, Mrs Wilton," said Jenny, piteously, "if I don't die first."

"Oh, tut, tut, tut! die, at your age. Why, even at mine I never think of such a thing. But, oh, my dear child, I want you to try and pity and comfort me. You know, of course, what trouble we have been in."

"Yes," said Jenny. "I have heard, and I'm better now, Mrs Wilton.

Won't you sit down?"

"To be sure I will, my dear. There: that's better. And now we can have a cozy chat, just as we used when you came to the Manor. Oh, dear, no visitors now, my child. It's all debt and misery and ruin. The place isn't the same. Poor, poor Kate!"

"Have you heard where she is, Mrs Wilton?"

"No, my dear," said the visitor, tightening her lips and shaking her head, "and never shall. Poor dear angel! I am right. I'm sure it's as I said."

Jenny looked at her curiously, while every nerve thrilled with the desire to know more.

"I felt it at the first," continued Mrs Wilton. "No sooner did they tell me that she was gone than I knew that in her misery and despair she had gone and thrown herself into the lake; and though I was laughed at and pooh-poohed, there she lies, poor child. I'm as sure of it as I sit here."

"Mrs Wilton!" cried Jenny, in horrified tones. "Oh, pray, pray, don't say that!" and she burst into a hysterical lit of weeping.

"I'm obliged to, my dear," said the visitor, taking a trembling hand in hers, and kissing it; "but don't you cry and fret, though it's very good of you, and I know you loved the sweet, gentle darling. Ah, it was all a terrible mistake, and I've often lain awake, crying without a sound, so as not to wake Mr Wilton and make him cross. Of course you know Mr Wilton settled that Claud was to marry her, and when he says a thing is to be, it's no use for me to say a word. He's master. It's 'love, honour, and obey,' my dear, when you're a married lady, as you'll find out some day."

"No, Mrs Wilton, I shall never marry."

"Ah, that's what we all say, my child, but the time comes when we think differently. But as I was telling you, I thought it was all a mistake, but I had to do what Mr Wilton wished, though I felt that they weren't suited a bit, and I know Claud did not care for her. I'd a deal rather have seen him engaged to a nice little girl like you."

"Mrs Wilton!" said Jenny, indignantly.

"Oh, dear me, what have I said?" cried the lady, smiling. "He's wilful and foolish and idle, and fond of sport; but my boy Claud isn't at all a bad lad--well, not so very--and he'll get better; and I'm sure you used to like to have a talk with him when you came to the Manor."

"Indeed I did not!" cried Jenny, flus.h.i.+ng warmly.

"Oh, very well then, I'm a silly old woman, and I was mistaken, that's all. But there, there, we don't want to talk about such things, with that poor child lying at the bottom of the lake; and they won't have it dragged."

"But surely she would not have done such a thing, Mrs Wilton," cried Jenny, wildly.

"I don't know, my dear. They say I'm very stupid, but I can't help, thinking it, for she was very weak and low and wretched, and she quite hated poor Claud for the way he treated her. But I never will believe that she eloped with that young Mr Dasent."

"Neither will I," cried Jenny, indignantly. "She would not do such a thing."

"That she would not, my dear; and I say it's a shame to say it, but my husband will have it that he has carried her off for the sake of her money. And as I said to my husband, 'You thought the same about poor Claud, when the darling boy was as innocent as a dove.' There, I'm right, I'm sure I'm right. She's lying asleep at the bottom of the lake."

Jenny's face contracted with horror, and her visitor caught her in her arms again.

"There, there, don't look like that, my dear. She's nothing to you, and I'm a very silly old woman, and I dare say I'm wrong. I came here to be like a good neighbour, and try and comfort you, and I'm only making you worse. That's just like me, my dear. But now look here. You mustn't go about with that white face. You want change, and you shall come over to the Manor and stay for a month. It will do you good."

"No," said Jenny, quietly. "I can not come, thank you, Mrs Wilton. My brother would not permit it."

"But he must, for your sake. Oh, these men, these men!"

"It is impossible," said Jenny, holding out her hand, "for we are going away."

"Going away! Well, I am sorry. Ah, me! It's a sad world, and maybe I shall be gone away, too, before long. But you might come for a week.

Why not to-morrow?"

Jenny shook her head, and the visitor parted from her so affectionately that no further opposition was made to the basket's contents.