She spoke of the future, and tried to pierce it; and in all these little loving speculations and anxieties there was no longer any mention of herself.
This meant that she feared her husband was about to lose her. I put the fear in the very form it took in that gentle breast.
Possessed with this dread, so natural to her situation, she set her house in order, and left her little legacies of clothes and jewels, without the help of a lawyer; for Sir Charles, she knew, would respect her lightest wish.
To him she left her all, except these trifles, and, above all—a manuscript book. It was the history of her wedded life. Not the bare outward history; but such a record of a sensitive woman's heart as no male writer's pen can approach.
It was the nature of her face and her tongue to conceal; but here, on this paper, she laid bare her heart; here her very subtlety operated, not to hide, but to dissect herself and her motives.
But oh, what it cost her to pen this faithful record of her love, her trials, her doubts, her perplexities, her agonies, her temptations, and her crime! Often she laid down the pen, and hid her face in her hands. Often the scalding tears ran down that scarlet face. Often she writhed at her desk, and wrote on, sighing and moaning. Yet she persevered to the end. It was the grave that gave her the power. “When he reads this,” she said, “I shall be in my tomb. Men make excuses for the dead. My Charles will forgive me when I am gone. He will know I loved him to desperation.”
It took her many days to write; it was quite a thick quarto; so much may a woman feel in a year or two; and, need I say that, to the reader of that volume, the mystery of her conduct was all made clear as daylight; clearer far, as regards the revelation of mind and feeling, than I, dealer in broad facts, shall ever make it, for want of a woman's mental microscope and delicate brush.
And when this record was finished, she wrapped it in paper, and sealed it with many seals, and wrote on it,
“Only for my husband's eye. From her who loved him not wisely, But too well.”
And she took other means that even the superscription should never be seen of any other eye but his. It was some little comfort to her, when the book was written.
She never prayed to live. But she used to pray, fervently, piteously, that her child might live, and be a comfort and joy to his father.
The person employed by Wheeler discovered the house agent, and the woman he had employed.
But these added nothing to the evidence Bassett had collected.
At last, however, this woman, under the influence of a promised reward, discovered a person who was likely to know more about the matter—viz., the woman who was in the house with Lady Bassett at the very time.
But this woman scented gold directly: so she held mysterious language; declined to say a word to the officer; but intimated that she knew a great deal, and that the matter was, in truth, well worth looking into, and she could tell some strange tales, if it was worth her while.
This information was sent to Bassett; he replied that the woman only wanted money for her intelligence, and he did not blame her; he would see her next time he went to town, and felt sure she would complete his chain of evidence. This put Richard Bassett into extravagant spirits. He danced his little boy on his knee, and said, “I'll run this little horse against the parson's brat; five to one, and no takers.”
Indeed, his exultation was so loud and extravagant that it jarred on gentle Mrs. Bassett. As for Jessie, the Scotch servant, she shook her head, and said the master was fey.
In the morning he started for London, still so exuberant and excited that the Scotch woman implored her mistress not to let him go; there would be an accident on the railway, or something. But Mrs. Bassett knew her husband too well to interfere with his journeys.
Before he drove off he demanded his little boy.
“He must kiss me,” said he, “for I'm going to work for him. D'ye hear that, Jane? This day makes him heir of Huntercombe and Bassett.”
The nurse brought word that Master Bassett was not very well this morning.
“Let us look at him,” said Bassett.
He got out of his gig, and went to the nursery. He found his little boy had a dry cough, with a little flushing.
“It is not much,” said he; “but I'll send the doctor over from the town.”
He did so, and himself proceeded up to London.
The doctor came, and finding the boy labored in breathing, administered a full dose of ipecacuanha. This relieved the child for the time; but about four in the afternoon he was distressed again, and began to cough with a peculiar grating sound.
Then there was a cry of dismay—“The croup!” The doctor was gone for, and a letter posted to Richard Bassett, urging him to come back directly.
The doctor tried everything, even mercury, but could not check the fatal discharge; it stiffened into a still more fatal membrane.
When Bassett returned next afternoon, in great alarm, he found the poor child thrusting its fingers into its mouth, in a vain attempt to free the deadly obstruction.
A warm bath and strong emetics were now administered, and great relief obtained. The patient even ate and drank, and asked leave to get up and play with a new toy he had. But, as often happens in this disorder, a severe relapse soon came, with a spasm of the glottis so violent and prolonged that the patient at last resigned the struggle. Then pain ceased forever; the heavenly smile came; the breath went; and nothing was left in the little white bed but a fair piece of tinted clay, that must return to the dust, and carry thither all the pride, the hopes, the boasts of the stricken father, who had schemed, and planned, and counted without Him in whose hands are the issues of life and death.
As for the child himself, his lot was a happy one, if we could but see what the world is really worth. He was always a bright child, that never cried, nor complained: his first trouble was his last; one day's pain, then bliss eternal: he never got poisoned by his father's spirit of hate, but loved and was beloved during his little lifetime; and, dying, he passed from his Noah's ark to an inheritance a thousand times richer than Huntercombe, Bassett, and all his cousin's lands.
The little grave was dug, the bell tolled, and a man bowed double with grief saw his child and his ambition laid in the dust.
Lady Bassett heard the bell tolled, and spoke but two words: “Poor woman!”
She might well say so. Mrs. Bassett was in the same condition as herself, yet this heavy blow must fall on her.
As for Richard Bassett, he sat at home, bowed down and stupid with grief.
Wheeler came one day to console him; but, at the sight of him, refrained from idle words. He sat down by him for an hour in silence. Then he got up and said, “Good-by.”
“Thank you, old friend, for not insulting me,” said Bassett, in a broken voice.
Wheeler took his hand, and turned away his head, and so went away, with a tear in his eye.
A fortnight after this he came again, and found Bassett in the same attitude, but not in the same leaden stupor. On the contrary, he was in a state of tremor; he had lost, under the late blow, the sanguine mind that used to carry him through everything.
The doctor was upstairs, and his wife's fate trembled in the balance.
“Stay by me,” said he, “for all my nerve is gone. I'm afraid I shall lose her; for I have just begun to value her; and that is how God deals with his creatures—the merciful God, as they call him.”
Wheeler thought it rather hard God Almighty should be blamed because Dick Bassett had taken eight years to find out his wife's merit; but he forbore to say so. He said kindly that he would stay.
Now while they sat in trying suspense the church-bells struck up a merry peal.
Bassett started violently and his eyes gave a strange glare. “That's the other!” said he; for he had heard about Lady Bassett by this time.
Then he turned pale. “They ring for him: then they are sure to toll for me.”
This foreboding was natural enough in a man so blinded by egotism as to fancy that all creation, and the Creator himself, must take a side in Bassett v. Bassett.
Nevertheless, events did not justify that foreboding. The bells had scarcely done ringing for the happy event at Huntercombe, when joyful feet were heard running on the stairs; joyful voices clashed together in the passage, and in came a female servant with joyful tidings. Mrs. Bassett was safe, and the child in the world. “The loveliest little girl you ever saw!”
“A girl!” cried Richard Bassett with contemptuous amazement. Even his melancholy forebodings had not gone that length. “And what have they got at Huntercombe?”
“Oh, it is a boy, sir, there.”
“Of course.”
The ringers heard, and sent one of their number to ask him if they should ring.
“What for?” asked Bassett with a nasty glittering eye; and then with sudden fury he seized a large piece of wood from the basket to fling at his insulter. “I'll teach you to come and mock me.”
The ringer vanished, ducking.
“Gently,” said Wheeler, “gently.”
Bassett chucked the wood back into the basket, and sat down gloomily, saying, “Then how dare he come and talk about ringing bells for a girl? To think that I should have all this fright, and my wife all this trouble—for a girl!”
It was no time to talk of business then; but about a fortnight afterward Wheeler said, “I took the detective off, to save you expense.”
“Quite right,” said Bassett, wearily.
“I gave you the woman's address; so the matter is in your hands now, I consider.”
“Yes,” said Bassett, wearily; “Move no further in it.”
“Certainly not; and, frankly, I should be glad to see you abandon it.”
“I have abandoned it. Why should I stir the mud now? I and mine are thrown out forever; the only question is, shall a son of Sir Charles or the parson's son inherit? I'm for the wrongful heir. Ay,” he cried, starting up, and beating the air with his fists in sudden fury, “since the right Bassetts are never to have it, let the wrong Bassetts be thrown out, at all events; I'm on my back, but Sir Charles is no better off; a bastard will succeed him, thanks to that cursed woman who defeated me.”
This turn took Wheeler by surprise. It also gave him real pain. “Bassett,” said he, “I pity you. What sort of a life has yours been for the last eight years? Yet, when there's no fuel left for war and hatred, you blow the embers. You are incurable.”
“I am,” said Richard. “I'll hate those two with my last breath and curse them in my last prayer.”
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg