Cursed by a Fortune

by George Manville Fenn

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

  "If I could only get poor Pierce to believe in me again!" sighed Jenny,as she lay back in an easy chair at the cottage, after a month ofillness; for in addition to the violent sprain from which she hadsuffered, the exposure had brought on a violent rheumatic cold andfever, from which she was slowly recovering.

  "But he doesn't believe in me a bit now, even after all I've suffered.Oh, how I should like to punish that wretched boy before I go!"

  She was sitting close to the window, where she could look down the roadtoward the village, her eyes dull, her face listless, thinking over thepast--her favourite way of making herself miserable, as she had no heartattachment, or disappointment, as a mental "piece de resistance" tofeast upon during her illness.

  Everything had gone so differently from the way she had planned. Piercewas to marry Kate Wilton, and be rich and happy ever afterwards; sheintended to be what she called a nice, little, old maiden aunt, to petand tend all her brother's children, for, of course, Kate and Piercewould have her to live with them; but it was all over--Kate had gone, noone knew where; Pierce, who had always loved her so tenderly, scarcelyever spoke to her as he used. He was quiet, grave, and civil, but neverwalked up and down the garden with his arm round her waist, laughing andjoking with her, and talking about the prince who was to come some dayto carry her off to his palace. It was all misery and wretchedness.

  "I'm sure nobody could have been so ill and suffered so much before,"she said, "and I'm growing so white, and thin, and ugly, and oldlooking, and I'm sure I shall have to go about with a crutch; and it'sso lonely with Pierce always going out to see old women and old men whoare 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 askPierce 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, "andpoor Pierce out. Oh, dear, how vexatious it is, when he wants patientsso 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 itcan't be Mr Wilton, because he always goes over to Dixter market onFridays. It must be Mrs Wilton herself."

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

  "Ah! my dear child!" she cried, bustling across the room, putting herbasket 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, andcarefully spreading her silks and furs as she sat down; "and I've beenso dreadfully unneighbourly in not coming to see you, though I did notknow you had been so bad as this. You see, I've had such troubles of myown to attend to that I couldn't think of anything else; but it all cameto me to-day that I had neglected you shamefully, and so I said tomyself, 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 lastbunch 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 notone 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, lookingtroubled.

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

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

  "And a bunch of mouldy grapes," cried Jenny, passionately, bursting intoa fit of sobbing, "just as if I were widow Gee!"

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

  "That's right. Have a good cry, my dear. It will relieve you, andyou'll feel better then. I know myself how peevish it makes one to beill, with no one to tend and talk to you; but you won't be angry with menow for bringing you the fruit and wine, for indeed, indeed, they arethe best to be had, and do you think I'd be so purse-proud and insultingas to treat you as one of the poor people? No, indeed, my dear, for Idon'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, ifI'm to stay here instead of going to the workhouse, there'll be nocarriage, but I shall have to walk."

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

  "Of course you do, my precious, and quite natural. We women understandit. I wish the gentlemen did; but dear, dear me, they think no one hasa right to be cross but them, and they are, too, sometimes. You can'tthink what I have to put up with from Mr Wilton and my son, though heis 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 thinkof such a thing. But, oh, my dear child, I want you to try and pity andcomfort 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 havea cozy chat, just as we used when you came to the Manor. Oh, dear, novisitors now, my child. It's all debt and misery and ruin. The placeisn'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 herhead, "and never shall. Poor dear angel! I am right. I'm sure it's asI said."

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

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

  "Mrs Wilton!" cried Jenny, in horrified tones. "Oh, pray, pray, don'tsay that!" and she burst into a hysterical lit of weeping.

  "I'm obliged to, my dear," said the visitor, taking a trembling hand inhers, and kissing it; "but don't you cry and fret, though it's very goodof you, and I know you loved the sweet, gentle darling. Ah, it was alla 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 MrWilton settled that Claud was to marry her, and when he says a thing isto 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 findout some day."

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

  "Ah, that's what we all say, my child, but the time comes when we thinkdifferently. 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'tsuited a bit, and I know Claud did not care for her. I'd a deal ratherhave seen him engaged to a nice little girl like you."

  "Mrs Wilton!" said Jenny, in
dignantly.

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

  "Indeed I did not!" cried Jenny, flushing warmly.

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

  "But surely she would not have done such a thing, Mrs Wilton," criedJenny, 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 quitehated poor Claud for the way he treated her. But I never will believethat she eloped with that young Mr Dasent."

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

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

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

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

  "No," said Jenny, quietly. "I can not come, thank you, Mrs Wilton. Mybrother 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 goingaway."

  "Going away! Well, I am sorry. Ah, me! It's a sad world, and maybe Ishall 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 affectionatelythat no further opposition was made to the basket's contents.