“Ever so much worse to deal with than he is to look at, Mr. Kit. Keep out of his way, sir, that’s my advice. I believe he is at the bottom of your trouble somehow. Though what good he can get out of it surpasses me.”
After begging her to keep a sharp look-out, and to send for me at once if she saw anything suspicious, I made the best of my way towards “Bulwrag Park,” and was amazed at the change a few months had wrought. All the wilderness of work stood thick with houses, all the sloughs of despond were firm hard roads, young trees were in leaf where surveyor’s flags had waved, and public-houses blazed with glass and gilt where bricks had smouldered. The Great Exhibition was in full swing, and the long streets were alive with cabs and broughams. However, the old house still looked grim and gaunt in its dark retirement, and the Scotch firs near it were as black as ever; and I passed with a throbbing heart the bay-tree which had sheltered my love and myself from the snow. I ventured to gather a spray of this, and put it as a keepsake beside my Prayer-book.
After two or three rings, I was admitted, and shown into the place I knew so well, and it seemed to my fancy to be glistening still with the tearful eyes of my darling. Then Miss Geraldine, the younger and more gentle of the daughters, came and looked at me with some surprise, and said that she would show me where her mother was, and I followed her into a morning room.
The great lady looked as well as ever, and received me with a stateliness which reminded me of her sister. She was beautifully dressed, so far as I could judge, and seemed in high good humour, and inclined to patronize me.
“Mr. Orchardson, I think you said, my dear? Mr. Orchardson, who married our poor Kitty. Well, Mr. Orchardson, I hope that you are happy. But surely—surely she did not do this? And if she did, you must not appeal to us. Sometimes she forgot herself—but still—and quite in the honeymoon—no, I am sure it cannot be.”
I was determined not to be provoked, although it was very hard upon me. This violent woman was pretending to believe that the scratches on my face, from last night’s fall, were inflicted by my dear wife’s nails. I did not condescend to answer that; and I was certain that she knew I had no Kitty now.
“I have ventured to intrude upon you,” I said, “upon a matter of important business, madam. To ask if you will kindly tell me how I can send a letter, so as to reach Captain Fairthorn. He is at sea, I know, upon a voyage of exploration, or something like that; and it may be very difficult to communicate with him. But I have a very important message—”
“Nothing amiss with your poor wife, I hope. Oh, I should be so grieved, if there were anything of that sort. She was flighty and wild; but with all her faults, there was much that was good about her. You could never see it, Geraldine, as I did. Please don’t tell me, Mr. Orchardson, that after all your goodness to her—for few would have married her knowing what she was—she has had the heart to deceive you.”
“No, she has never deceived me, madam; there is no deceit in her nature. But—but for some good reason doubtless,—for the present she has left me.”
No one can tell what it cost me to drag out these words to her arch enemy, who was taking them in, like a draught of nectar, not only for the fact—which she had known when it occurred—but for the anguish they were costing me.