“Send away Jane! Nelly, you are crazy. I might have let her go with Innocent, trusting that Sir Alexis would be able to manage her; but otherwise she must stay under my own eye. Think, Nelly, what she knows! She heard what Innocent said, every word.”
“She is very impertinent,” said Nelly. “If you keep her she will grow more and more so, and one day or other she will do the worst she can. Why should you pay any attention to her? Send her away, and let her do her worst!”
“Not for the world!” cried her mother. They had an argument about it which almost came to a quarrel; but the result was that Nelly was vanquished, and Jane stayed.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.
Some time after the above events, Frederick’s little house in Mayfair—which had been the only advantage poor Amanda had gained by marrying him, and which had been furnished according to her taste, in a somewhat showy, modern fashion, with dashes of ill-considered and ill-fitting antiquity—became vacant. The tenant who had taken it for the winter months gave it up at the end of February: as it had proved a somewhat profitable investment, Frederick, who had a lease of the house, decided on letting it again, furnished. A little more money is never a matter of indifference to a young man with expensive tastes, and he was very willing to add to his income in this way. Before the house was let again, however, it was necessary that all the personal lumber Mrs. Frederick had left behind her should be cleared away. Her trunks, which had been placed in one locked-up room, her knick-knacks, the trifles with which she had filled her drawing-room, had to be put in order, and either restored to their places or distributed to her friends. Frederick found his mother and sister quite adverse to the office of looking over Amanda’s “things.” Her clothes and her finery were objects in which they took no interest, except the pitiful and painful one which now encompassed everything she had possessed. But they would neither accept this melancholy, tawdry inheritance which she had left behind her, for themselves, nor did they feel any inclination to take upon them the office of arbitrators and distributors among her friends. He sent for Aunty in his perplexity from Sterborne. He had sworn to have nothing to do with the family henceforward, but in this strait he did not hesitate. Aunty came up to London on his application, almost by return of post. The dead woman’s finery was all interesting to her. She had a pleasure in trying it on, in estimating its value, in selecting some for herself, in laying aside various articles for other friends. The office pleased Aunty immensely; and as this sad but satisfactory piece of business entailed the necessity of a prolonged visit to town,—where she lived in Frederick’s house “like a lady,” with two maids to serve her, and a room for a friend, and the most congenial occupation—it is not wonderful that she should have regarded it with pleasure. It pleased Batty too that his son-in-law, whom he described in his own circle as being proud as Lucifer, yet acknowledged in this way the existence and the claims of his wife’s family. He sent a friendly message by Aunty to the effect that he himself would soon pay Frederick a visit. He had begun to recover the shock of his daughter’s death. Marriage had already separated her from him, and such grief as his does not resist the softening influence of time and circumstances. Frederick’s “attention” flattered and pleased him,—and Frederick’s family was always something to brag of. Even Innocent’s marriage was a feather in Mr. Batty’s cap,—“My poor girl’s cousin,” he called her. He was most amiable to the Eastwoods, who had showed, he said, every respect to his girl. It was only when any appearance of indifference to Amanda’s memory displayed itself that his violence of grief returned. When some one suggested that his son-in-law would soon marry again, his face clouded over; “Confound him! if he can forget my girl so soon!” he cried; but Frederick’s appeal to Aunty mollified him entirely. “He was bound up in my poor girl, was Frederick Eastwood,” he said after that. And during the winter he had been afflicted with rheumatism, and with brandy-and-water, as bad a form of disease; therefore he had not gone to town, nor put his son-in-law’s friendliness to the test. But the invitation to Aunty opened the door to further intimacy; so Frederick did not intend—but so Batty thought.
It was a disappointment to both of these personages to find that their host was not really their host, and that in reality it was an empty house in which they were sent to live. The table was indeed supplied at Frederick’s cost, and he himself was guiltless of any idea that he was not doing everything that could be required of him; but Amanda’s relations were sensitive. Then, too, the maids were not so respectful as Aunty felt they ought to have been. They judged her, I suppose, as we are all disposed to do, by her appearance, and were not careful to do their service according to the strict measure of their duty. She had expected to go to Frederick’s house to become for the time his housekeeper and virtual mistress of his dwelling—to be supreme over the servants, and have the management in her hands—perhaps to drive out in the brougham which Amanda had told her of; and thus to relieve her heavier labours by a few London sights such as had not for a long time been afforded to her. As for Batty, though he intended his visit to be a short one, he, too, expected to be Frederick’s guest, to see Frederick’s friends, to go with him to his club, and to pick up at least a few names which he could in the future produce among his friends as “cronies of my son-in-law’s.” He had no intention of being hard upon Frederick. He already knew, and had known before Amanda’s reign commenced, that the morality of the young man was far from perfect. If he had discovered new traces of indulgences similar to those he had witnessed in Paris, he would have thought the poor fellow excusable, and would have made every allowance for him. But it was a very different thing to arrive in Frederick’s empty house—to be received by Aunty alone, whose society he did not prize highly—to have a dinner served up to him imperfectly cooked, the maids not caring to put themselves out of the way for such guests—to be shown into a bedroom partially dismantled, and in which no particular preparations for his comfort had been thought necessary. “By George! What does it all mean?” he said. “It means that Frederick Eastwood don’t think us good enough for his company,” said Aunty, who was much galled by the want of reverence for herself shown by the servants. “Well, well,” said Batty, persevering in his good-humour, “I dare say he’s got other things to think of. I’ll set all that right to-morrow.” In his heart he concluded that Frederick’s reluctance to set up house with Aunty was natural enough, but his own presence would alter all that. He put up with it accordingly the first night. He went to look at his daughter’s dresses hung up to air in the best bedroom, and his heart softened more and more. “I don’t doubt now as my poor girl was very happy here,” he said, looking round upon all the fittings of the room which had been hers. They were of a kind which he considered luxurious—as such they had been chosen by her. No want of “respect” was visible in this bower, which she had fitted up for herself. He went to his own room after this inspection, melancholy and slightly maudlin, but satisfied, and had a little more brandy-and-water, and concluded that next day he should see Frederick, and set all right.
Next day, however, things were not set right. He went to the Sealing Wax Office, and found that his son-in-law was out. Frederick was no longer afraid of him, and the senility of fear was over for ever in his mind. Before his marriage he would not have dared to be out of the way when a man commanding the secret of his life called upon him; but everybody knew now what a mistake and mésalliance poor Eastwood had made, and how he had been providentially delivered from it. Batty, gradually growing furious, proceeded in the afternoon to The Elms, to call upon the ladies. He saw, or thought he saw, them at the window, as he drove to the door in his Hansom, and was about to enter with familiar freedom as a connexion of the family, when Brownlow stopped him solemnly with a “Not at home, sir.”
“Not at home!” cried Batty, “I saw them at the window. Take in my name, my good fellow. I am not a stranger. Your mistress will see me.”
“My mistress is out,” said Brownlow solemnly—which was true to the letter, as Mrs. Eastwood and Nelly had escaped by the garden door at sight of the visitor, and were now deep in the recesses of the Lady’s Walk.
Batty looked at him like an infuriated bull—his face growing red, and his eyes projected out of his head. “By Jove, sir, you shall smart for this!” he cried in spite of himself.