by Ellen Wood
‘Did I accuse you of it? Boy! you had better go and throw yourself into one of those gravel pits and die, than grow up to be deceitful,’ she vehemently cried. ‘Deceit has been the curse of my days. It has made me what I am; one whom the boys hoot after, and call — —’
‘No, no; not so bad as that,’ interrupted Austin, soothingly. ‘You have been cross with them sometimes, and they are insolent, mischievous little ragamuffins. I am sure every thoughtful person respects you, feeling for your sorrow.’
‘Sorrow!’ she wailed. ‘Ay. Sorrow, beyond what falls to the ordinary lot of man. The blow fell upon me, though I was not an actor in it. When those connected with us do wrong, we suffer; we, more than they. I may be revenged yet,’ she added, her expression changing to anger. ‘If I can only come across him.’
‘Across whom?’ naturally asked Austin.
‘Who are you, that you should seek to pry into my secrets?’ she passionately resumed. ‘I am five-and-fifty to-day — old enough to be your mother, and you presume to put the question to me! Boys are coming to something.’
‘I beg your pardon; I but spoke heedlessly, Miss Gwinn, in answer to your remark. Indeed I have no wish to pry into anybody’s business. And as to “secrets,” I have eschewed them, since, a little chap in petticoats, I crept to my mother’s room door to listen to one, and got soundly whipped for my pains.’
‘It is a secret that you will never know, or anybody else; so put its thoughts from you. Austin Clay,’ she added, laying her hand upon his arm, and bending forward to speak in a whisper, ‘it is fifteen years, this very day, since its horrors came out to me! And I have had to carry it about since, as I best could, in silence and in pain.’
She turned round abruptly as she spoke, and continued her way along the broad path; while Austin Clay struck short off towards the gravel pits, which was his nearest road to the Lowland farm. Silent and abandoned were the pits that day; everybody connected with them was enjoying holiday with the rest of the world. ‘What a strange woman she is!’ he thought.
It has been said that the gravel pits were not far from the path. Austin was close upon them, when the sound of a horse’s footsteps caused him to turn. A gentleman was riding fast down the common path, from the opposite side to the one he and Miss Gwinn had come, and Austin shaded his eyes with his hand to see if it was any one he knew. No; it was a stranger. A slender man, of some seven-and-thirty years, tall, so far as could be judged, with thin, prominent aquiline features, and dark eyes. A fine face; one of those that impress the beholder at first sight, as it did Austin, and, once seen, remain permanently on the memory.
‘I wonder who he is?’ cried Austin Clay to himself. ‘He rides well.’
Possibly Miss Gwinn might be wondering the same. At any rate, she had fixed her eyes on the stranger, and they seemed to be starting from her head with the gaze. It would appear that she recognised him, and with no pleasurable emotion. She grew strangely excited. Her face turned of a ghastly whiteness, her hands closed involuntarily, and, after standing for a moment in perfect stillness, as if petrified, she darted forward in his pathway, and seized the bridle of his horse.
‘So! you have turned up at last! I knew — I knew you were not dead!’ she shrieked, in a voice of wild raving. ‘I knew you would some time be brought face to face with me, to answer for your wickedness.’
Utterly surprised and perplexed, or seeming to be, at this summary attack, the gentleman could only stare at his assailant, and endeavour to get his bridle from her hand. But she held it with a firm grasp.
‘Let go my horse,’ he said. ‘Are you mad?’
‘You were mad,’ she retorted, passionately. ‘Mad in those old days; and you turned another to madness. Not three minutes ago, I said to myself that the time would come when I should find you. Man! do you remember that it is fifteen years ago this very day that the — the — crisis of the sickness came on? Do you know that never afterwards — —’
‘Do not betray your private affairs to me,’ interrupted the gentleman. ‘They are no concern of mine. I never saw you in my life. Take care! the horse will do you an injury.’
‘No! you never saw me, and you never saw somebody else!’ she panted, in a tone that would have been mockingly sarcastic, but for its wild passion. ‘You did not change the current of my whole life! you did not turn another to madness! These equivocations are worthy of you.’
‘If you are not insane, you must be mistaking me for some other person,’ he replied, his tone none of the mildest, though perfectly calm. ‘I repeat that, to my knowledge, I never set eyes upon you in my life. Woman! have you no regard for your own safety? The horse will kill you! Don’t you see that I cannot control him?’
‘So much the better if he kills us both,’ she shrieked, swaying up and down, to and fro, with the fierce motions of the angry horse. ‘You will only meet your deserts: and, for myself, I am tired of life.’
‘Let go!’ cried the rider.
‘Not until you have told me where you live, and where you may be found. I have searched for you in vain. I will have my revenge; I will force you to do justice. You — —’
In her sad temper, her dogged obstinacy, she still held the bridle. The horse, a spirited animal, was passionate as she was, and far stronger. He reared bolt upright, he kicked, he plunged; and, finally, he shook off the obnoxious control, to dash furiously in the direction of the gravel pits. Miss Gwinn fell to the ground.
To fall into the pit would be certain destruction to both man and horse. Austin Clay had watched the encounter in amazement, though he could not hear the words of the quarrel. In the humane impulse of the moment, disregarding the danger to himself, he darted in front of the horse, arrested him on the very brink of the pit, and threw him back on his haunches.
Snorting, panting, the white foam breaking from him, the animal, as if conscious of the doom he had escaped, now stood in trembling quiet, obedient to the control of his master. That master threw himself from his back, and turned to Austin.
‘Young gentleman, you have saved my life.’
There was little doubt of that. Austin accepted the fact without any fuss, feeling as thankful as the speaker, and quite unconscious at the moment of the wrench he had given his own shoulder.
‘It would have been an awkward fall, sir. I am glad I happened to be here.’
‘It would have been a killing fall,’ replied the stranger, stepping to the brink, and looking down. ‘And your being here must be owing to God’s wonderful Providence.’
He lifted his hat as he spoke, and remained a minute or two silent and uncovered, his eyes closed. Austin, in the same impulse of reverence, lifted his.
‘Did you see the strange manner in which that woman attacked me?’ questioned the stranger.
‘Yes.’
‘She must be insane.’
‘She is very strange at times,’ said Austin. ‘She flies into desperate passions.’
‘Passions! It is madness, not passion. A woman like that ought to be shut up in Bedlam. Where would be the satisfaction to my wife and family, if, through her, I had been lying at this moment at the bottom there, dead? I never saw her in my life before; never.’
‘Is she hurt? She has fallen down, I perceive.’
‘Hurt! not she. She could call after me pretty fiercely when my horse shook her off. She possesses the rage and strength of a tiger. Good fellow! good Salem! did a mad woman frighten and anger you?’ added the stranger, soothing his horse. ‘And now, young sir,’ turning to Austin, ‘how shall I reward you?’
Austin broke into a smile at the notion.
‘Not at all, thank you,’ he said. ‘One does not merit reward for such a thing as this. I should have deserved sending over after you, had I not interposed. To do my best was a simple matter of duty — of obligation; but nothing to be rewarded for.’
‘Had he been a common man, I might have done it,’ thought the stranger; ‘but he is evidently a gentleman. Well, I may be able to repay
it in some manner as you and I pass through life,’ he said, aloud, mounting the now subdued horse. ‘Some neglect the opportunities, thrown in their way, of helping their fellow-creatures; some embrace them, as you have just done. I believe that whichever we may give — neglect or help — will be returned to us in kind: like unto a corn of wheat, that must spring up what it is sown; or a thistle, that must come up a thistle.’
‘As to embracing the opportunity — I should think there’s no man living but would have done his best to save you, had he been standing here.’
‘Ah, well; let it go,’ returned the horseman. ‘Will you tell me your name? and something about yourself?’
‘My name is Austin Clay. I have few relatives living, and they are distant ones, and I shall, I expect, have to make my own way in the world.’
‘Are you in any profession? or business?’
‘I am with Mr. Thornimett, of Ketterford: the builder and contractor.’
‘Why, I am a builder myself!’ cried the stranger, a pleasing accent of surprise in his tone. ‘Shall you ever be visiting London?’
‘I daresay I shall, sir. I should like to do so.’
‘Then, when you do, mind you call upon me the first thing,’ he rejoined, taking a card from a case in his pocket and handing it to Austin. Come to me should you ever be in want of a berth: I might help you to one. Will you promise?’
‘Yes, sir; and thank you.’
‘I fancy the thanks are due from the other side, Mr. Clay. Oblige me by not letting that Bess o’ Bedlam obtain sight of my card. I might have her following me.’
‘No fear,’ said Austin, alluding to the caution.
‘She must be lying there to regain the strength exhausted by passion, carelessly remarked the stranger. ‘Poor thing! it is sad to be mad, though! She is getting up now, I see: I had better be away. That town beyond, in the distance, is Ketterford, is it not?’
‘It is.’
‘Fare you well, then. I must hasten to catch the twelve o’clock train. They have horse-boxes, I presume, at the station?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘All right,’ he nodded. ‘I have received a summons to town, and cannot afford the time to ride Salem home. So we must both get conveyed by train, old fellow’ — patting his horse, as he spoke to it. ‘By the way, though — what is the lady’s name?’ he halted to ask.
‘Gwinn. Miss Gwinn.’
‘Gwinn? Gwinn?’ Never heard the name in my life. Fare you well, in all gratitude.’
He rode away. Austin Clay looked at the card. It was a private visiting card— ‘Mr. Henry Hunter’ with an address in the corner.
‘He must be one of the great London building firm, “Hunter and Hunter,”’ thought Austin, depositing the card in his pocket. ‘First class people. And now for Miss Gwinn.’
For his humanity would not allow him to leave her unlooked-after, as the molested and angry man had done. She had risen to her feet, though slowly, as he stepped back across the short worn grass of the common. The fall had shaken her, without doing material damage.
‘I hope you are not hurt?’ said Austin, kindly.
‘A ban light upon the horse!’ she fiercely cried. ‘At my age, it does not do to be thrown on the ground violently. I thought my bones were broken; I could not rise. And he has escaped! Boy! what did he say to you of me — of my affairs?’
‘Not anything. I do not believe he knows you in the least. He says he does not.’
The crimson passion had faded from Miss Gwinn’s face, leaving it wan and white. ‘How dare you say you believe it?’
‘Because I do believe it,’ replied Austin. ‘He declared that he never saw you in his life; and I think he spoke the truth. I can judge when a man tells truth, and when he tells a lie. Mr. Thornimett often says he wishes he could read faces — and people — as I can read them.’
Miss Gwinn gazed at him; contempt and pity blended in her countenance. ‘Have you yet to learn that a bad man can assume the semblance of goodness?’
‘Yes, I know that; and assume it so as to take in a saint,’ hastily spoke Austin. ‘You may be deceived in a bad man; but I do not think you can in a good one. Where a man possesses innate truth and honour, it shines out in his countenance, his voice, his manner; and there can be no mistake. When you are puzzled over a bad man, you say to yourself, “He may be telling the truth, he may be genuine;” but with a good man you know it to be so: that is, if you possess the gift of reading countenances. Miss Gwinn, I am sure there was truth in that stranger.’
‘Listen, Austin Clay. That man, truthful as you deem him, is the very incarnation of deceit. I know as much of him as one human being can well know of another. It was he who wrought the terrible wrong upon my house; it was he who broke up my happy home. I’ll find him now. Others said he must be dead; but I said, “No, he lives yet.” And, you see he does live. I’ll find him.’
Without another word she turned away, and went striding back in the direction of Ketterford — the same road which the stranger’s horse had taken. Austin stood and looked after her, pondering over the strange events of the hour. Then he proceeded to the Lowland farm.
A pleasant day amidst pleasant friends spent he; rich Easter cheesecakes being the least of the seductions he did not withstand; and Ketterford clocks were striking half-past ten as he approached Mrs. Thornimett’s. The moonlight walk was delightful; there was no foreboding of ill upon his spirit, and he turned in at the gate utterly unconscious of the news that was in store for him.
Conscious of the late hour — for they were early people — he was passing across the lawn with a hasty step, when the door was drawn silently open, as if some one stood there watching, and he saw Sarah, one of the two old maid-servants, come forth to meet him. Both had lived in the family for years; had scolded and ordered Austin about when a boy, to their heart’s content, and for his own good.
‘Why, Sarah, is it you?’ was his gay greeting. ‘Going to take a moonlight ramble?’
‘Where have you stayed?’ whispered the woman in evident excitement. ‘To think you should be away this night of all others, Mr. Austin! Have you heard what has happened to the master?’
‘No. What?’ exclaimed Austin, his fears taking alarm.
‘He fell down in a fit, over at the village where he went; and they brought him home, a-frightening us two and the missis almost into fits ourselves. Oh, Master Austin!’ she concluded, bursting into tears, ‘the doctors don’t think he’ll live till morning. Poor dear old master!’
Austin, half paralysed at the news, stood for a moment against the wall inside the hall. ‘Can I go and see him?’ he presently asked.
‘Oh, you may go,’ was the answer; ‘the mistress has been asking for you, and nothing rouses him. It’s a heavy blow; but it has its side of brightness. God never sends a blow but he sends mercy with it.’
‘What is the mercy — the brightness?’ Austin waited to ask, thinking she must allude to some symptom of hope. Sarah put her shrivelled old arm on his in solemnity, as she answered it.
‘He was fit to be taken. He had lived for the next world while he was living in this. And those that do, Master Austin, never need shrink from sudden death.’
CHAPTER II. CHANGES.
To reflect upon the change death makes, even in the petty every-day affairs of life, must always impart a certain awe to the thoughtful mind. On the Easter Monday, spoken of in the last chapter, Richard Thornimett, his men, his contracts, and his business in progress, were all part of the life, the work, the bustle of the town of Ketterford. In a few weeks from that time, Richard Thornimett — who had not lived to see the morning light after his attack — was mouldering in the churchyard; and the business, the workshops, the artisans, all save the dwelling-house, which Mrs. Thornimett retained for herself, had passed into other hands. The name, Richard Thornimett, as one of the citizens of Ketterford, had ceased to be: all things were changed.
Mrs. Thornimett’s friends and acquaintances had assemb
led to tender counsel, after the fashion of busybodies of the world. Some recommended her to continue the business; some, to give it up; some, to take in a gentleman as partner; some, to pay a handsome salary to an efficient manager. Mrs. Thornimett listened politely to all, without the least intention of acting upon anybody’s opinion but her own. Her mind had been made up from the first. Mr. Thornimett had died fairly well off, and everything was left to her — half of the money to be hers for life, and then to go to different relatives; the other half was bequeathed to her absolutely, and was at her own disposal. Rumours were rife in the town, that, when things came to be realized, she would have about twelve thousand pounds in money, besides other property.
But before making known her decision abroad, she spoke to Austin Clay. They were sitting together one evening when she entered upon the subject, breaking the silence that reigned with some abruptness.
‘Austin, I shall dispose of the business; everything as it stands. And the goodwill.’
‘Shall you?’ he exclaimed, taken by surprise, and his voice betraying a curious disappointment.
Mrs. Thornimett nodded in answer.
‘I would have done my best to carry it on for you, Mrs. Thornimett. The foreman is a man of experience; one we may trust.’
‘I do not doubt you, Austin; and I do not doubt him. You have got your head on your shoulders the right way, and you would be faithful and true. So well do I think of your abilities, that, were you in a position to pay down only half the purchase-money, I would give you the refusal of the business, and I am certain success would attend you. But you are not; so that is out of the question.’
‘Quite out of the question,’ assented Austin. ‘If ever I get a business of my own, it must be by working for it. Have you quite resolved upon giving it up?’
‘So far resolved, that the negotiations are already half concluded,’ replied Mrs. Thornimett. ‘What should I, a lone woman, do with an extensive business? When poor widows are left badly off, they are obliged to work; but I possess more money than I shall know how to spend. Why should I worry out my hours and days trying to amass more? It would not be seemly. Rolt and Ransom wish to purchase it.’