“There may be half-a-dozen under the lamp-post, for what I know,” said Jane.
Thus the matter arranged itself with the utmost simplicity. Never did messenger of evil leave a household more unsuspicious. Mrs. Eastwood had as little conception of what was in preparation as had the innocent Brownlow, who would have walked to the end of the world rather than accept this fatal substitute, had he known. But neither he knew, nor any one. The soft spring air caressed Nelly’s face as she looked out from the hall window, wondering if any one was coming, and saw Jane’s dark figure passing through the gate; just as softly it caressed the countenance of Jane herself, on her way to spread havock and consternation. But the girl at the window had no fear, and the girl at the door only an excited sense of importance. Jane had not even any very bad meaning, so far as she was aware. She was bursting with the something which she had to tell; this could not but bring some advantage to herself, she thought; as for the disadvantage to others, she did not realize to what length that might go, or feel that its greatness would overbalance the importance and benefit to come to her. On this point her imagination altogether failed her. I believe, for my own part, that imagination is the first faculty wanting in those that do harm to their kind, great or small.
Just about the same moment Batty, breathing fire and flame, had found Frederick, and was pouring out the history of his grievances.
“Do you ask a man to your house, you fine gentleman, when you’re not at home?” cried Batty. “Lord, I wouldn’t invite a dog, unless I meant him to share my kennel. A miserable, empty place, with a couple of impudent maids—that’s what you call giving your friends hospitality, eh? You invite a gentleman like that——”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Frederick; “I am not aware that I ever took so great a liberty as to invite you.”
“Confound your politeness and your impudence!” said the other: and became so noisy that Frederick left the club, enduring without replying to the abuse of his companion, who, however, gradually calmed down as they emerged into the open air, where there was no one to hear what he said. He told his son-in-law of the affront put upon him at The Elms—how the door had been shut in his face, though he had seen the ladies at the window—and demanded to be invited there, as a proof that no insult was intended. “I don’t care twopence for your paltry dinner,” he said. “Thank God, I can feed myself and all belonging to me, without being beholden to any man or woman either; but hang me if I’ll stand your disdainful ways. If you want to quarrel, say so; now that my poor girl’s gone, you and your stuck-up set are nothing to me. But a man’s honour’s his honour, however you take it. If there weren’t no affront intended, as you say, get the old lady to send me an invite, and I’ll look over it. I could not speak more fair.”
“What you ask me is quite impossible,” said Frederick. “Dine with me to-morrow if you will, either at my house, where you are, or somewhere else. I’ll arrange it, and I’ll give you a good dinner, a better dinner than my mother understands. But I can’t interfere with her arrangements. I live at home because it suits me, and there is room; but I never interfere with her guests. My mother has a will of her own. She leaves me my freedom, and I never interfere with her.”
From this position Frederick would not recede. Batty, stung by the refusal, furious at himself for having asked, and at his son-in-law for not having granted, left him at last with a mind on flame, asking himself how he could be revenged on the ungrateful husband who, no doubt, had ill-treated his girl and made her miserable. He soothed and stimulated his feelings by extensive potations upon his drive back in his Hansom to the little house in Mayfair. He would not spend another night under that d——d roof, he would get his traps and go to his hotel, where he was known as a man that could pay his way; the old cat might stay if she liked, but as for him he would have no more of their d——d impertinence. But he’d go to the office next morning and expose the d——d scoundrel, d——n him if he wouldn’t. Thus Batty blasphemed as his Hansom drove violently to the door of Frederick’s house. He rushed in and mounted the stairs to the deserted-looking drawing-room, in which there were lights. “Get me my things together, old woman,” he cried; “quick, I have not a moment to lose. They’re all a pack of d——d impudent good-for-nothings. I’ll see Frederick Eastwood at Jericho before I stay another night in his d——d miserable house!”
Aunty was standing dissolved in tears, with a coloured photograph in her hand, in a tawdry frame, a portrait of Mrs. Frederick which had been done before she married, and in which her blue gown appeared to perfection, if nothing else. She was not alone; another individual, of whom Batty knew nothing, stood by in a corner, curtseying to him as he came in. Aunty held out the photograph to him, with the tears running down her cheeks.
“Look what I found in an old cupboard among the rubbish!” she cried; “the picture we was all so proud of. Oh, the lovely creature! and them as got her thinking nothing on her. And, oh Batty, there’s that to hear as neither you nor me knows nothing about. Look at her, the sweet darling! She’s been took from us, she’s been murdered! and neither you nor me knows nothing about it! Sit down, man, if you’re a man and loved your child. Sit down and listen to what this woman’s got to tell you. Sit, Batty, don’t be thinking of yourself. Sit down and hear.”