Broken to Harness: A Story of English Domestic Life

by Edmund Yates

Then what was lying there lay no longer. There came a morning when the boys in the neighbouring mews, who had been on the look-out for some little time, passed the word to each other that it was all right for that day, and forthwith coming trooping out, took up their positions in available spots close by. The mutes in their preposterous scarves, and bearing their hideous banners, mounted guard at the door; and the hearse and the mourning-coaches pulled-up close by; and the red-nosed men got ready the trays of feathers, and the long staves, and the velvet trappings, and all the funeral insignia, which would be ridiculous were they not disgusting. And the company arrived at the house: there were two of the dead man's brothers, representing the firm respectively in Hamburg and Paris; uncles and cousins, pillars of the London Exchange; the clerk from the office, who had acted as the dead man's private secretary, and who was a very presentable young man, the delight of the evening-party-givers of Surbiton; Mr. M'quiddit from Bedford Row, who was met on the door-step by his clerk, who presented him with an oblong packet, which the lawyer deposited in the library before joining the rest of the company; and little Dr. Prater, looking preternaturally solemn and wise,--all these gathered together to see Gustav Schröder to his grave. On the dining-room table were cold fowls (already cut up, and tied together with pieces of black crape) and cold viands; but save Mr. M'Quiddit, who had come up from his country-house at Datchet and was hungry, no one tasted food. The decanters, however, were put into requisition; and the great butler took occasion to whisper in Dr. Prater's ear a recommendation of some Vino di Pasta as being something special. Then came that most horrid time of all, when there was a bumping and a scuffling on the stairs, and a creaking of the bannisters. Every body knew what caused it and what it meant; and there was an involuntary silence which made the talk, when they began again to talk, seem more hollow and forced than it had been before. Then, draped in bilk scarves, and wearing hats swaddled in crape, the mourners ascended the coaches, walking to them through a lane of boys, and were borne off to Kensal Green; on alighting at the gates of which dismal necropolis, they were marshalled into proper order by the head undertaker, and so marched in procession to the grave. There a gentleman, who really could not be complained of when it was remembered that he had done duty four times already that day, and expected to do it three times again, half drawled, half cantered through the most beautiful service of the Church, that for the burial of the dead, without the smallest atom of expression, and apparently without knowing what he was about; then he shut his book, and the bystanders one by one looked into the grave--and all was over. The mourning-coaches, which had come so slowly, went merrily back; the Schröders went to the City house, and sent telegrams and read share-lists, and talked of how soon Gustav's share in the concern ought to be realised; the uncles and cousins did much the same; the presentable clerk had a holiday, and met a few lady friends at the Zoological Gardens; Dr. Prater lunched at a rich patient's, where he told the story of Mr. Schröder's death, and dined at another rich patient's where he told it again; and Mr. M'Quiddit had an interview with the widow and gave her a short abstract of the will, which was eminently satisfactory.

It had been proposed by the deceased gentlemen's brothers, who were his executors, that the widow should leave town for a few weeks,--should run down to Brighton or Tunbridge Wells,--and thus, in change of scene, shake off the excess of grief under which they found her to be really labouring. But under a strange state of feeling which is scarcely describable, but which originated in an idea that her determination to do her duty to the utmost would not be properly carried out, were she to allow herself any thing like indulgence, poor little Alice decided upon stopping in Saxe-Coburg Square and thenceforward entering upon the useful state of life which she had proposed to herself. Perhaps in this decision she was a little guided by her feeling for Barbara: the regard which had always existed between them (regard on Barbara's side mingled with a sense of superiority leading to pity, the regard which a grand Scotch deerhound might feel for a little thin-limbed Italian greyhound pet) had very much increased since the recent calamity. Alice had experienced a sisterly tenderness at Barbara's hands which she had never thought Barbara capable of feeling; Barbara had seen in Alice a fixed propriety of purpose such as she had never given Alice credit for. And Alice was by no means so selfish or so thoroughly wrapped up in her own grief as not to see that, although Barbara pretended to look upon her own married career as entirely at an end, yet in reality she had by no means given up all hope of a happy reconciliation with Frank. A sudden peal at the bell would make her cheek flame; her nervousness at the sight of Pilkington entering the room with letters was unmistakable; and in a thousand other ways she gave evidence of he heart's yearnings. So Alice felt that while this unsettled state of affairs lasted, Barbara's home must be with her, and that a removal from town would be highly antagonistic to any chance of a settlement which might transpire; and as this entirely coincided with her own views, she elected to remain in town.

Mr. Schröder's will had been made a few months before his death, and was in accordance with the general tenor of his married life. It ordered that his share in the City firm should be realised at the earliest favourable opportunity, and that it and all his other investments should be lodged in the name of trustees for his wife's use and disposal. As this represented a very large annual income, and as the details of the will soon became public through the medium of the press, the "kind-inquiries" cards began to shower down in Saxe-Coburg Square. You, who are rich, find these amicable condolences sent in at once, in such times. You, who are poor, know that in general there is a little hanging fire until it is understood what will be the future position of the family. In the present day the vast proportion of middle-class people occupy a factitious position in society; factitious, that is to say, thus far--that its existence depends entirely on the life of the father, husband, breadwinner. So long as his good income is made, so good; but when he dies, despite all his attempts at laying-by, his precautions in insuring his life, the whole thing changes; all the little luxuries have to be given up, and the family sinks into a decidedly lower circle of society. That is why the great law-giver Society waits to hear the will read before he nods approval on visits of condolence being paid. In this case there could be not much doubt about money; but there were some peculiar features,--"a sudden death, my dear, and that sort of thing;" and it was thought better by Mrs. Grundy, and her set, to wait a little, until there could be no possible doubt on the matter: After a little time, the intimates of the house were admitted. Old Mr. Townshend was still away on the Continent; and there never seemed to have been any other member of the Townshend family; but the Schröders came down in flocks. The wives of the brothers, and the sisters, and the daughters' nieces, and cousins twice removed,--who so kind as they in time of trouble? Their husbands and fathers might be money-grubbers in the City of London; in them was nothing but the good old German spirit of kindness, of brotherhood and sisterhood, of honest help and openhanded affection, which had first flourished when they were all poor stragglers in the Frankfort Judengasse, which had lasted until they were among the most opulent of the earth. And Dr. Prater was there, of course, every day, chirrupping softly about the house, and going from thence up and down and into the ends of the London world, and talking of the enormous wealth left by his poor deceased friend Mr. Schröder to his interesting patient Mrs. Schröder. And Captain Lyster came, sending up his card, and proffering his services in any manner in which they might be required; and then Barbara saw him; and after a little time Alice saw him; and his services were brought into requisition, and proved to be eminently useful. For when Fred Lyster chose to shake off his drawl, and to apply himself, there were few men with a quicker or a keener appreciation of what ought to be; and in settling affairs, there were numerous cases arose in which a lady could not possibly interfere, and in which the intervention of some one prompt, clear-headed, and business-like, was indispensable. And as Fred Lyster had never any thing to do, he had full leisure to attend to these matters, and entered into them with an eagerness and a perseverance which astonished all who saw him--save Barbara, who perhaps might have made a shrewd guess as to the mainspring of his actions. Poor George Pringle had called too. He had been a good deal cut up by the death of Mr. Schröder, whom he had been accustomed to describe as "a good old cock, sir; a worthy old party; kind-hearted and all that, and giving no end good feeds;" and he had, in his rough way, great sympathy for his cousin Alice,--"a poor little thing, sir; left alone, with nothing to console her."

With consolation-end in view, Mr. Pringle arrived one Sunday afternoon at the door of the house in Saxe-Coburg Square, in a hansom cab, whence he extracted a smooth English white terrier, with a black patch over one eye. Taking this animal under his arm, he, after making due inquiries after Mrs. Schröder's health, transferred it to the frightened grasp of Pilkington, requesting that it might be at once carried upstairs with his love. Pilkington was horribly frightened,--he "never could abide dawgs;" and so no sooner was the door closed than he set the animal down in the hall, where, catching sight of the well-fed calves of Rawbert the footman, it presently began to lick its lips, and growled in a very ominous manner.

Mr. Beresford called three times: once immediately after the announcement of the death, when he simply left his card; once on the day after the funeral, when, besides his card, he left a warm message of inquiry; once a fortnight after, when "he hoped he might be permitted to see Mrs. Schröder." Barbara was with Alice in her boudoir when this message arrived; and she noticed that the poor little woman went deadly white as she listened, and then flushed deeply.

"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed; "I cannot see him. Barbara darling, I never will see him again. I hate the mention of his name; it jars upon me now; I cannot tell you how--oh, no, no!" And so Barbara framed a polite reply in Alice's name, and Mr. Beresford went away.

That night, as Barbara sat in her own room, feeling very weary and worn, and with an irrepressible yearning towards her husband and her home, the tears rose in her eyes; and, determined not to indulge in the luxury of "a good cry," she drew out her handkerchief, and with it a paper, which fell to the ground at her feet. Looking down at it as it lay there, she recognised the paper which had been found in the library, and handed to her by Dr. Prater, on the night of Mr. Schröder's death, and which had ever since entirely escaped her recollection. She picked it up from the carpet, and opened it; but no sooner had her eyes fallen on the inside than she gave a start of astonishment, and uttered a low cry. The same!--unquestionably the same handwriting! The circumstances connected with both previous occasions of her having seen it far too deeply impressed it on her mind to allow of her being mistaken. It was that long scrawly handwriting--unmistakably that of a woman only partially educated--in which the letters to Frank Churchill--that delivered at Bissett, and the envelope found in the dressing-room--had both been addressed. If Barbara's heart beat fast when her eyes first fell upon the lines, how much more disturbed was she when she read their contents, as follows:

"Your wife is false to you, and is carrying on with a Mr. Beresford. They meet every day, ride together, and deceive you. Watch them, and you will find this out. It has been going on for some time--for months. It is a thing that Beresford has meant for a long time; and he always carries out what he means. I know him well.

"A Friend."

It was, then, the receipt of this letter which had had such fatal effect on poor Mr. Schröder. He had fallen, pierced to the heart by this anonymous stab. Any excitement, any worry, or anxiety, coming suddenly on him, might have ended his life at any time, Dr. Prater had said; and so--Dr. Prater? It was he who had picked up this paper from the library-floor, on to which it had fallen from the dead man's hand. The doctor had asked her whether there had been any cause for sudden excitement; had suggested that the paper should not be shown to Mrs. Schröder; that its existence need not be mentioned before the coroner. He had read it, then. Barbara had no need to think twice to assure herself on that point. That the imputations on Alice which the anonymous letter conveyed were unfounded, Barbara had not the smallest doubt. She knew that her friend, though thoughtless, had never, even in thought, been guilty; and knew that she now bitterly repented her levity and silliness. It would be worse than cruel to let her know of the existence of this document; it must be kept from her at all hazards. Alice's horror of Mr. Beresford was now so great as to require no fanning; and Barbara was certain that of her own free will the widow would never see him again. But in the event of Mr. Beresford's demanding an interview, what was to be done then? Poor Barbara found it impossible to answer this self-proposed question; and there was no one to whom she could apply for advice. Captain Lyster had been her mainstay in several cases; but this was a delicate matter, which it was impossible to make him acquainted with. Oh, if she only had Frank to turn to! and that sent her thoughts reverting to the handwriting. Whose could it be?--who could be the owner of that fatal griffe, which seemed to bring desolation with it wherever it arrived? And at the end of her reverie, finding herself no clearer in her suspicions than she was at first, Barbara locked the note into her desk, and determined to leave to chance the use she might eventually make of it.