Читать книгу Newton Forster; Or, The Merchant Service - Фредерик Марриет - Страница 11

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That she is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true, ’tis pity;

And pity ’tis, ’tis true: a foolish figure;

But farewell it, for I will use no art.

Mad let us grant her then; and now remains

That we find out the cause of this effect,

Or rather say, the cause of this defect.

Shakespeare.

Mr. Dragwell has already made honourable mention of his wife; it will therefore only be necessary to add, that he had one daughter, a handsome lively girl, engaged to a Mr. Ramsden, the new surgeon of the place, who had stepped into the shoes and the good-will of one who had retired from forty years’ practice upon the good people of Overton. Fanny Dragwell had many good qualities, and many others which were rather doubtful. One of the latter had procured her more enemies than at her age she had any right to expect. It was what the French term “malice,” which bears a very different signification from the same word in our own language. She delighted in all practical jokes, and would carry them to an excess, at the very idea of which others would be startled; but it must be acknowledged that she generally selected as her victims those who from their conduct towards others richly deserved retaliation. The various tricks which she had played upon certain cross old spinsters, tatlers, scandalmongers, and backbiters, often were the theme of conversation and of mirth: but this description of espiéglerie contains a most serious objection; which is, that to carry on a successful and well arranged plot, there must be a total disregard of truth. Latterly, Miss Fanny had had no one to practise upon except Mr. Ramsden, during the period of his courtship—a period at which women never appear to so much advantage, nor men appear so silly. But even for this, the time was past, as latterly she had become so much attached to him that distress on his part was a source of annoyance to herself. When therefore her father came home, narrating the circumstances which had occurred, and the plan which had been meditated, Fanny entered gaily into the scheme. Mrs. Forster had long been her abhorrence; and an insult to Mr. Ramsden, who had latterly been designated by Mrs. Forster as a “Pill-gilding Puppy,” was not to be forgotten. Her active and inventive mind immediately conceived a plan which would enable her to carry the joke much farther than the original projectors had intended. Ramsden, who had been summoned to attend poor Mr. Spinney, was her sole confidant, and readily entered into a scheme which was pleasing to his mistress, and promised revenge for the treatment he had received; and which, as Miss Dragwell declared, would be nothing but retributive justice upon Mrs. Forster.

Late in the evening, a message was received from Newton Forster, requesting that Mr. Ramsden would attend his mother. He had just visited the old clerk, who was now sensible, and had nothing to complain of except a deep cut on his temple from the rim of the pewter-pot. After receiving a few parting injunctions from Miss Dragwell, Mr. Ramsden quitted the parsonage.

“I am afraid it’s a very bad business, Mr. Forster,” replied the surgeon to Newton, who had been interrogating him relative to the injury received by Mr. Spinney. “Evident concussion of the brain: he may live—or he may not; a few days will decide the point: he is a poor feeble old man.”

Newton sighed as he reflected upon the disaster and disgrace which might ensue from his mother’s violence of temper.

“Eh! what, Mr. Ramsden?” said Nicholas, who had been for some time contemplating the battered visage of his spouse. “Did you say, she’ll die?”

“No, no, Mr. Forster, there’s no fear of Mrs. Forster, she’ll do well enough. She’ll be up and about again in a day or two, as lively as ever.”

“God forbid!” muttered the absent Nicholas.

“Mr. Forster, see if I don’t pay you off for that, as soon as I’m up again,” muttered the recumbent lady, as well as the bandages passed under her chin would permit her.

“Pray call early to-morrow, Mr. Ramsden, and let us know how Mr. Spinney is going on,” said Newton, extending his hand as the surgeon rose to depart. Mr. Ramsden shook it warmly, and quitted the house: he had left them about half an hour when Betsy made her appearance with some fomentations, which had been prepared in the kitchen. Out of revenge for sundry blows daily received, and sundry epithets hourly bestowed upon her by her mistress, the moment she entered she exclaimed, in a half-crying tone, “O dear, Mr. Newton! there’s such shocking news just come from the parsonage; Mr. Spinney is just dead—and my Missis will be hanged!”

Mrs. Forster said not a word; she quailed under dread of the report being correct. Newton and his father looked at each other; their mute anguish was expressed by covering up their faces with their hands.

When Hilton and the curate arranged their plans for the mortification of Mrs. Forster, it was considered advisable that Newton (who was not so easily to be imposed upon) should be removed out of the way. Hilton had already stated his intention to give him in charge of the vessel, and he now proposed sending him for a cargo of shingle, which was lying ready for her, about fifty miles down the coast, and which was to be delivered at Waterford. At an early hour, on the ensuing morning, he called at Forster’s house. Newton, who had not taken off his clothes, came out to meet him.

“Well, Newton, how is your mother?” said Hilton. “I hope you are not angry with me: I certainly was the occasion of the accident, but I could not bear to see your worthy father treated in that manner.”

“I blush to acknowledge, Mr. Hilton, that she deserved it all,” replied Newton; “but I am very much alarmed about the condition of Mr. Spinney. Have you heard this morning?”

“No; but between ourselves, Newton, doctors always make the worst of their cases. I never heard of a pewter pot killing a man; he’ll do well enough, never fear. I came to tell you that I’ve a letter last night from Repton, who says that the shingle must be delivered before the tenth of next month, or the contract will be void. He desires that I will send the sloop directly, or he must employ another craft. Now, I think you had better start at once; there’s a nice fair wind for you, and you’ll be down afore night.”

“Why, really, Mr. Hilton, I do not exactly like to leave home just now,” replied Newton, thoughtfully.

“Well, as you please, Mr. Forster,” rejoined Hilton, with apparent displeasure. “I have offered you the command of the vessel, and now you object to serve my interests on the very first occasion, merely because there are a couple of broken heads!”

“I am wrong, most certainly,” replied Newton; “I beg your pardon—I will just speak a word or two to my father, and be on board in less than half an hour.”

“I will meet you there,” said Hilton, “and bring your papers. Be as quick as you can, or you’ll lose the first of the tide.”

Newton returned to the house; his father made no objection to his departure; and, in fulfilment of his promise, Newton was ready to start, when he encountered Ramsden at the door.

“Mr. Ramsden,” said Newton, “I am requested by the owner of my vessel to sail immediately; but if you think that the life of Mr. Spinney is seriously in danger, I will throw up the command of the vessel, rather than leave my mother under such an accumulation of disasters. I beg as a favour that you will not disguise the truth.”

“You may sail this minute, if you please, Mr. Forster; I am happy to be able to relieve your mind. Mr. Spinney is doing very well, and you’ll see him at his desk on the first Sunday of your return.”

“Then I am off: good-bye, Mr. Ramsden; many thanks.”

With a lightened heart, Newton leapt into the skiff which was to carry him on board of the sloop; and in less than half an hour was standing away to the southward before a fine wind, to execute the orders which he had received.

Ramsden remained a few minutes at the door, until he saw Newton ascend the side of the vessel; then he entered, and was received by Betsy.

“Well, Betsy, you agreed to make Mrs. Forster believe that Mr. Spinney was dead; but we little thought that such would really be the case.”

“Lord love you, sir! why you don’t say so?”

“I do, indeed, Betsy; but mind, we must keep it a secret for the present, until we can get Mrs. Forster out of the way. How is she this morning?”

“Oh, very stiff, and very cross, sir.”

“I’ll go up to her,” replied Ramsden “but recollect, Betsy, that you do not mention it to a soul;” and Ramsden ascended the stairs.

“Well, Mrs. Forster, how do you feel this morning? do you think you could get up?”

“Get up, Mr. Ramsden! not to save my soul—I can’t even turn on my side.”

“Very sorry to hear it, indeed,” replied the surgeon; “I was in hopes that you might have been able to bear a journey.”

“Bear a journey, Mr. Ramsden! why bear a journey?”

“I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Spinney’s gone—poor old man! There must be a coroner’s inquest. Now, it would be as well if you were not to be found, for the verdict will be ‘Wilful Murder!’ ”

“O dear! O dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Forster, jumping out of her bed with fright, and wringing her hands: “What can I do?—what can I do?”

“At present it is a secret, Mrs. Forster, but it cannot be so long. Miss Dragwell, who feels for you very much, begged me not to say a word about it. She will call and consult with you, if you would like to see her. Sad thing indeed, Mrs. Forster, to be placed in such a situation by a foolish husband.”

“You may well say that, Mr. Ramsden,” replied the lady, with asperity; “he is the greatest fool that ever God made! Every one knows what a sweet temper I was before I married; but flesh and blood cannot bear what I am subjected to.”

“Would you like to see Miss Dragwell?”

“Yes, very much; I always thought her a very nice girl;—a little wild—a little forward indeed, and apt to be impertinent; but still, rather a nice girl.”

“Well, then, I will tell her to call, and the sooner the better, for when it is known, the whole town will be in an uproar. I should not be surprised if they attacked the house—the people will be so indignant.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” replied Mrs. Forster; “nothing can excuse such provocation as I receive from my husband, stupid wretch!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Forster; do you think then that you could bear moving?”

“O yes! O yes! But where am I to go?”

“That I really cannot form an idea—you had better consult with Miss Dragwell.—Depend upon it, Mrs. Forster, that I will be most happy to render you all my assistance in this unfortunate dilemma.”

“You’re very good,” snarled Mrs. Forster: and Ramsden quitted the room.

I have one or two acquaintances, to whom, if I wish a report to be circulated, I immediately impart the substance as a most profound secret; and I find that by these means it obtains a much more extensive circulation than if I sent it to the newspapers.

Ramsden was aware of Betsy’s cackling propensities, and long before he quitted Mrs. Forster, it was generally believed throughout the good town of Overton that Mr. Spinney, although he had not been killed outright, as reported in the first instance, had subsequently died of the injuries received from this modern Xantippe.

Mrs. Forster had half an hour to reflect upon her supposed awkward situation; and to drive away thought, had sent for Nicholas, whom she loaded with the bitterest invectives, when Miss Dragwell was announced.

“See, sir,” continued Mrs. Forster, “the condition to which you have reduced a fond and faithful wife—one that has so studied your interests; one—”

“Yes, indeed,” added Miss Dragwell, who heard the attack as she ascended the stairs, and took up the cause of Mrs. Forster to obtain her confidence—“yes, indeed, Mr. Forster, see the consequences of your folly, your smoking, and your drinking.—Pray leave the room, sir; I wonder how Mrs. Forster can bear the sight of you!”

Nicholas stared, and was about to throw in a detached word or two, by way of vindication, when a furious “Begone!” from his wife occasioned a precipitate retreat.

“We have all been consulting about this sad business, my dear Mrs. Forster,” commenced Miss Dragwell; “and after much consideration have hit upon the only plan by which you may escape the penalty of the law. Yes, my dear ma’am,” continued Miss Dragwell, in the most bland and affectionate voice, “it is unwise to conceal the truth from you; the depositions of my father and Mr. Hilton, when they are called upon, will be such that ‘Wilful Murder!’ must be returned, and you—(the young lady faltered, and put up her handkerchief)—you must inevitably be hanged!”

“Hanged!” screamed Mrs. Forster.

“Yes, hanged—‘hanged by the neck until you are dead! and the Lord have mercy upon your soul!’ that will be your sentence,” replied the young lady, sobbing;—“such an awful, such a disgraceful death for a woman too!”

“O Lord, O Lord!” cried Mrs. Forster, who was now really frightened. “What will become of me?”

“You will go to another and a better world, as my papa says in his sermons; I believe that the pain is not very great—but the disgrace—”

Mrs. Forster burst into tears. “Save me! save me, Miss Dragwell!—Oh! Oh! that stupid Nicholas, Oh! Oh!”

“My dear Mrs. Forster, we have all agreed at the parsonage that there is but one method.”

“Name it, my dear Miss Dragwell, name it!” cried Mrs. Forster, imploringly.

“You must pretend to be mad, and then there will be a verdict of insanity; but you must carry it through everything, or it will be thought you are shamming. Mr. Ramsden is acquainted with Dr. B—, who has charge of the asylum at D—. It is only nine miles off: he will take you there, and when the coroner’s inquest is over you can return. It will be supposed then to have been only temporary derangement. Do you like the proposal?”

“Why, I have been mad for a long time,” replied Mrs. Forster; “the conduct of my husband and my son has been too much for my nerves; but I don’t like the idea of actually going to a madhouse.—Could not—”

“O dear, marm!” cried Betsy, running into the room, “there’s a whole posse of people about the house; they want to take you to the town jail, for murdering Mr. Spinney. What shall I say to them? I’m feared they’ll break in.”

“Go and tell them that Mrs. Forster is too ill to be taken out of bed, and that she is out of her senses—d’ye hear, Betsy, tell them all she is stark staring mad!”

“Yes, I will, marm,” replied Betsy, wiping her eyes as she left the room.

Miss Dragwell walked to the window. Although the report spread by Betsy had collected a crowd opposite the house, still there was no attempt at violence.

“I’m afraid that it’s too late,” said the young lady, turning from the window. “What a crowd! and how angry they seem to be! you must be hanged now!”

“O no! I’ll be mad—I’ll be anything, my dear Miss Dragwell.”

“Well, then, we must be quick—don’t put your gown on—petticoats are better—I’ll dress you up.” Miss Dragwell rummaged the drawers, and collecting a variety of feathers and coloured ribbons, pinned them over the bandages which encircled Mrs. Forster’s head; then pulling out a long-tailed black coat of her husband’s, which had been condemned, forced her arms through it, and buttoned it in front. “That will do for the present,” cried Miss Dragwell; “now here’s the cat, take it in your arms, go to the window and nurse it like a baby. I’ll throw it open—you come forward and make them a curtsy; that will spread the report through the town that you are mad, and the rest will then be easy.”

“Oh! I can’t—I can’t go to the window, I can’t indeed.”

“I’ll open the window and speak to the people,” said Miss Dragwell; and she threw up the sash, informing the gaping multitude that Mrs. Forster was quite out of her senses, but perfectly harmless.

“Perfectly harmless, after killing a man!” observed one of the party below.

“They won’t believe me, Mrs. Forster; come, you must, or you will certainly be hanged.”

Urged by her fears, Mrs. Forster approached the window, and showed herself to the astonished crowd. “Curtsy to them,” said Miss Dragwell; holding her handkerchief before her mouth.

Mrs. Forster curtsied.

“Smile upon them,” continued the malicious young lady.

Mrs. Forster grinned horribly.

“Now dance your cat.”

Mrs. Forster obeyed the injunction.

“Now give a loud shriek, and toss the cat out of window.”

Mrs. Forster uttered a hideous yell, and threw the animal at the heads of the spectators, who retreated with alarm in every direction.

“Now burst into a fit of laughter, curtsy to them, and wave your hand, and that will be sufficient.”

Mrs. Forster obeyed the last order, and Miss Dragwell shut the window. In a few minutes the report spread that Mrs. Forster had gone out of her senses; and the murder of Mr. Spinney, a topic which was nearly exhausted, was dismissed for the time to dwell and comment upon the second catastrophe.