Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1282 page)

Warm-hearted Lizzie could control herself no longer.

“If the child would only make some complaint,” she burst out, “it wouldn’t be so dreadful! Oh, what a shame! what a shame!” she cried, to the astonishment of little Syd. “Come down, my dear, to the nice warm room where your brother is. Oh, your mother? I don’t care if your mother sees us; I should like to give your mother a piece of my mind. There! I don’t mean to frighten you; I’m one of your bad children — I fly into a passion. You carry the dolls and I’ll carry
you
. Oh, how she shivers! Give us a kiss.”

Sympathy which expressed itself in this way was new to Syd. Her eyes opened wide in childish wonder — and suddenly closed again in childish terror, when her good friend the servant passed Mrs. Westerfield’s door on the way downstairs. “If mamma bounces out on us,” she whispered, “pretend we don’t see her.” The nice warm room received them in safety. Under no stress of circumstances had Mrs. Westerfield ever been known to dress herself in a hurry. A good half-hour more had passed before the house door was heard to bang — and the pleasant landlady, peeping through the window, said: “There she goes. Now, we’ll enjoy ourselves!”

5. — The Landlord.

Mrs. Westerfield’s destination was the public-house in which she had been once employed as a barmaid. Entering the place without hesitation, she sent in her card to the landlord. He opened the parlor door himself and invited her to walk in.

“You wear well,” he said, admiring her. “Have you come back here to be my barmaid again?”

“Do you think I am reduced to that?” she answered.

“Well, my dear, more unlikely things have happened. They tell me you depend for your income on Lord Le Basque — and his lordship’s death was in the newspapers last week.”

“And his lordship’s lawyers continue my allowance.”

Having smartly set the landlord right in those words, she had not thought it necessary to add that Lady Le Basque, continuing the allowance at her husband’s request, had also notified that it would cease if Mrs. Westerfield married again.

“You’re a lucky woman,” the landlord remarked. “Well, I’m glad to see you. What will you take to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you. I want to know if you have heard anything lately of James Bellbridge?”

The landlord was a popular person in his own circle — not accustomed to restrain himself when he saw his way to a joke. “Here’s constancy!” he said. “She’s sweet on James, after having jilted him twelve years ago!”

Mrs. Westerfield replied with dignity. “I am accustomed to be treated respectfully,” she replied. “I wish you good-morning.”

The easy landlord pressed her back into her chair. “Don’t be a fool,” he said; “James is in London — James is staying in my house. What do you think of that?”

Mrs. Westerfield’s bold gray eyes expressed eager curiosity and interest. “You don’t mean that he is going to be barman here again?”

“No such luck, my dear; he is a gentleman at large, who patronizes my house.”

Mrs. Westerfield went on with her questions.

“Has he left America for good?”

“Not he! James Bellbridge is going back to New York, to open a saloon (as they call it) in partnership with another man. He’s in England, he says, on business. It’s my belief that he wants money for this new venture on bad security. They’re smart people in New York. His only chance of getting his bills discounted is to humbug his relations, down in the country.”

“When does he go to the country?”

“He’s there now.”

“When does he come back?”

“You’re determined to see him, it appears. He comes back to-morrow.”

“Is he married?”

“Aha! now we’re coming to the point. Make your mind easy. Plenty of women have set the trap for him, but he has not walked into it yet. Shall I give him your love?”

“Yes,” she said, coolly. “As much love as you please.”

“Meaning marriage?” the landlord inquired.

“And money,” Mrs. Westerfield added.

“Lord Le Basque’s money.”

“Lord Le Basque’s money may go to the Devil!”

“Hullo! Your language reminds me of the time when you were a barmaid. You don’t mean to say you have had a fortune left you?”

“I do! Will you give a message to James?”

“I’ll do anything for a lady with a fortune.”

“Tell him to come and drink tea with his old sweetheart tomorrow, at six o’clock.”

“He won’t do it.”

“He will.”

With that difference of opinion, they parted.

6. — The Brute.

To-morrow came — and Mrs. Westerfield’s faithful James justified her confidence in him.

“Oh, Jemmy, how glad I am to see you! You dear, dear fellow. I’m yours at last.”

“That depends, my lady, on whether I want you. Let go of my neck.”

The man who entered this protest against imprisonment in the arms of a fine woman, was one of the human beings who are grown to perfection on English soil. He had the fat face, the pink complexion, the hard blue eyes, the scanty yellow hair, the smile with no meaning in it, the tremendous neck and shoulders, the mighty fists and feet, which are seen in complete combination in England only. Men of this breed possess a nervous system without being aware of it; suffer affliction without feeling it; exercise courage without a sense of danger; marry without love; eat and drink without limit; and sink (big as they are), when disease attacks them, without an effort to live.

Mrs. Westerfield released her guest’s bull-neck at the word of command. It was impossible not to submit to him — he was so brutal. Impossible not to admire him — he was so big.

“Have you no love left for me?” was all she ventured to say.

He took the reproof good-humoredly. “Love?” he repeated. “Come! I like that — after throwing me over for a man with a handle to his name. Which am I to call you: ‘Mrs?’ or ‘My Lady’?”

“Call me your own. What is there to laugh at, Jemmy? You used to be fond of me; you would never have gone to America, when I married Westerfield, if I hadn’t been dear to you. Oh, if I’m sure of anything, I’m sure of that! You wouldn’t bear malice, dear, if you only knew how cruelly I have been disappointed.”

He suddenly showed an interest in what she was saying: the brute became cheery and confidential. “So he made you a bad husband, did he? Up with his fist and knocked you down, I daresay, if the truth was known?”

“You’re all in the wrong, dear. He would have been a good husband if I had cared about him. I never cared about anybody but you. It wasn’t Westerfield who tempted me to say Yes.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No, indeed it isn’t.”

“Then why did you marry him?”

“When I married him, Jemmy, there was a prospect — oh, how could I resist it? Think of being one of the Le Basques! Held in honour, to the end of my life, by that noble family, whether my husband lived or died!”

To the barman’s ears, this sounded like sheer nonsense. His experience in the public-house suggested an explanation. “I say, my girl, have you been drinking?”

Mrs. Westerfield’s first impulse led her to rise and point indignantly to the door. He had only to look at her — and she sat down again a tamed woman. “You don’t understand how the chance tempted me,” she answered, gently.

“What chance do you mean?”

“The chance, dear, of being a lord’s mother.”

He was still puzzled, but he lowered his tone. The true-born Briton bowed by instinct before the woman who had jilted him, when she presented herself in the character of a lord’s mother. “How do you make that out, Maria?” he asked politely.

She drew her chair nearer to him, when he called her by her Christian name for the first time.

“When Westerfield was courting me,” she said, “his brother (my lord) was a bachelor. A lady — if one can call such a creature a lady! — was living under his protection. He told Westerfield he was very fond of her, and he hated the idea of getting married. ‘If your wife’s first child turns out to be a son,’ he said, ‘there is an heir to the title and estates, and I may go on as I am now.’ We were married a month afterward — and when my first child was born it was a girl. I leave you to judge what the disappointment was! My lord (persuaded, as I suspect, by the woman I mentioned just now) ran the risk of waiting another year, and a year afterward, rather than be married. Through all that time, I had no other child or prospect of a child. His lordship was fairly driven into taking a wife. Ah, how I hate her!
Their
first child was a boy — a big, bouncing, healthy brute of a boy! And six months afterward, my poor little fellow was born. Only think of it! And tell me, Jemmy, don’t I deserve to be a happy woman, after suffering such a dreadful disappointment as that? Is it true that you’re going back to America?”

“Quite true.”

“Take me back with you.”

“With a couple of children?”

“No. Only with one. I can dispose of the other in England. Wait a little before you say No. Do you want money?”

“You couldn’t help me, if I did.”

“Marry me, and I can help you to a fortune.”

He eyed her attentively and saw that she was in earnest. “What do you call a fortune?” he asked.

“Five thousand pounds,” she answered.

His eyes opened; his mouth opened; he scratched his head. Even his impenetrable nature proved to be capable of receiving a shock. Five thousand pounds! He asked faintly for “a drop of brandy.”

She had a bottle of brandy ready for him.

“You look quite overcome,” she said.

He was too deeply interested in the restorative influence of the brandy to take any notice of this remark. When he had recovered himself he was not disposed to believe in the five thousand pounds.

“Where’s the proof of it?” he said, sternly.

She produced her husband’s letter. “Did you read the Trial of Westerfield for casting away his ship?” she asked.

“I heard of it.”

“Will you look at this letter?”

“Is it long?”

“Yes.”

“Then suppose you read it to me.”

He listened with the closest attention while she read. The question of stealing the diamonds (if they could only be found) did not trouble either of them. It was a settled question, by tacit consent on both sides. But the value in money of the precious stones suggested a doubt that still weighed on his mind.

“How do you know they’re worth five thousand pounds?” he inquired.

“You dear old stupid! Doesn’t Westerfield himself say so in his letter?”

“Read that bit again.”

She read it again: “After the two calamities of the loss of the ship, and the disappearance of the diamonds — these last being valued at five thousand pounds — I returned to England.”

Satisfied so far, he wanted to look at the cipher next. She handed it to him with a stipulation: “Yours, Jemmy, on the day when you marry me.”

He put the slip of paper into his pocket. “Now I’ve got it,” he said, “suppose I keep it?”

A woman who has been barmaid at a public-house is a woman not easily found at the end of her resources.