The Root of all Evil

Front matter

■ I ■ ■ THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL B\ FLORENCE MARRYAT. (MRS. FRANCIS LEAN.) IN three volumes. VOL. II. Uonban : SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 1880. [All Rig/its Reserved.] CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHAPTER PAGE I. ' I WISHES I WAS DEAD, I DO ' - - - I II. ' YOU MAY TELL 'IM THAT I'LL DO IT ' - 28 III. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?' - - 54 IV. ' MARRY MISS FARTHINGALE ! I COULDN'T DO IT !' - - - - - 84 V. "TWAS I GIVK 'IM HUP' - - - IIO VI. ■ SAY AN OLD FRIEND CALLED TO SEE HER'- I 39 VIL 'YOU HAVE A SON TO INHERIT, I BELIEVE' - 166 VIII. 'YOU HAVE KILLED THE BEST PART IN- ME ' - 1 97 IX ' INDEED YOU HAD BETTER SEND FOR A DOCTOR ----- 223 X. 'ALONE WITH HIM ! I CANNOT BEAR IT' - «•:<

Chapter I

' I WISHES I WAS DEAD, I DO.' Miss Nettleship was not quite so indifferent to her matrimonial prospects as she would have led us to believe. She took a keen pleasure in (metaphorically speaking) leading Vivian Chasemore about with a blue ribbon round his neck ; but she occasionally felt a tinge of fear as she thought of the possible contingency of being left a widow without a jointure worth speaking of. Vivian, in the VOL. II. 1 ardour of his passion, had proposed that, in order to avert so terrible a calamity, they should not live up to their income, at all events until they had laid by a certain number of thousand pounds to form a settlement for herself. But Regina did not relish this idea at all. She had not sold herself in order to retrench and live quietly. She wished to cut a dash amongst her friends and acquaintances, and fill the breasts of both men and women with envy.

She told Vivian that she would not hear of his laying by anything on her account; that if he spoke of or hinted at the probabilities of his death he made her miserable, and the pretty speech sounded so much like the outpourings of affection that the lover felt perfectly satisfied. So the preparations for the wedding went on gaily ; a handsome house was taken for the reception of the bride and bridegroom ; and in the midst of choosing expensive furniture and equipages and jewellery, if Regina ever experienced a misgiving as to her future, she put it from her as a disagreeable possibility that might never happen, and had better not be thought about. She had a great deal to endure at this time from the jealousy of her mother. It may seem an extraordinary thing thatawoman could ever be jealous of the good fortune of her child ; but selfish people are selfish all the world over, and Lady William's equanimity of temper was not always proof against seeing the beautiful presents that Vivian showered upon her daughter, or hearing of the luxuries by which she was to be surrounded in her new house : whilst the poor old woman, too, hardly knew where she should find the money to pay for those articles for Regina which she could not pro cure on credit. ' Another dress !' she exclaimed with up lifted hands ; ' why, that makes the tenth ! 18—2 £ VIL.

What you are to do with them all I can't imagine ; or what you will find to spend your allowance upon after you are married. One would think you were going to be a duchess, Regina, at the very least.' ' Really, mamma,' the girl answered, ' you seem to consider that anything would be good enough for me ! I wish you would remember I am about to relieve you of the burden of supporting me for ever. Ten dresses ! Why, I ought to have twenty at the very least ; and if this is the effect of being a duke's granddaughter, all I can say is, that I am thankful, for the sake of my posterity, that I am not going to become a duchess !' ' Oh, of course ! run down your father's birth as usual, Regina! He may not have left a fortune behind him ' ' No, that he certainly did not,' interposed her daughter, decidedly. ' To be inherited by some scapegrace of a strolling actor,' continued Lady William, with withering scorn ; ' but he had blue blood in his veins such as will never run through those of your children — if you have any !' ' I suppose not, mamma, unless they inherit a drop or two from me !

Still I think, on the whole, I preferred blood and rubies to blue blood and bread and cheese ! My taste may be degenerated — -I dare say it is — but I have been accustomed so long to the latter luxury, that I am a little tired of it, and shall enjoy a change !' ' Whilst you leave your poor mother alone to end her days in the same cheerless poverty,' said Lady William, weeping. Regina did not reply directly to this in sinuation, nor deny the truth of it. Had her mother been an ordinary individual, she would probably have comforted her by the assurance that she would live more in her £ VIL. house than in her own. But the girl knew what such a proceeding would entail, and carefully avoided it. Visions of Mrs. Runny mede and the Macdougal, with cards late at night and sips of brandy and water, rose up to strengthen the resolution that her future home should be kept free, as far as lay in her power, from all that had disgusted her in the present.

So she deftly turned the subject. ' Don't let us think of anything disagree able, mamma ! You have had your day, you know, and surely it is time for mine to begin. Are you not going to put on your bonnet ? Mr. Chasemore is to call for us at twelve in the new carriage, that I may see if I like it ; and I believe we are to go to Howell and James's to choose some rings. Pray don't let him see that you have been crying! He will suspect we have been having words, and he thinks there is nothing so vulgar as a quarrel.' ' Ah, well, my dear ! I suppose I must go, since you must have a chaperon ; but it seems folly in me to accustom myself to that without which I must manage to exist for the remainder of my life.' ' I should think there was all the more reason to enjoy it whilst you can, mamma,' replied her daughter ; ' but if you like it better, 1 will tell Mr. Chasemore to send for a cab.' ' Unfeeling — ungenerous — ungrateful !' burst like pistol-shots from Lady William's lips, as she disappeared into her bedroom.

To Regina, however, who had never had more than a few shillings at a time to spend on her own pleasure, the reckless profusion with which Vivian threw away his money was a source of exquisite content. Not that she was vulgarly and openly grateful. She accepted all his gifts as if they were her due, and nothing better than she had been accustomed to ; but she revelled in their possession in private, and her inward satisfaction made her temper unusually sunny and beaming. Vivian thought her a perfect angel in those brief days of courtship, and indeed she was more like one than she had ever been before. She even appeared to grow benevolent and charitable ; a phase of softness of which no one had ever suspected her. When Vivian Chasemore saw her stop for a moment to drop a coin into the hand of some faded looking woman sitting on a doorstep with an infant at her breast, or throw pennies to the little urchins that gathered round them in the Park, he thought what a good mother she would make, and thanked Heaven pre maturely.

As they drove away that morning, in the splendid chariot drawn by a couple of high stepping bays that he had brought round to E VIL. 9 receive the meed of her approval, a girl with a dirty face thrust a bunch of lavender in at the carriage-door. ' Go away !' said Vivian, sharply, and he was about to draw up the glass. ' Oh, poor child ! don't speak so crossly to her,' exclaimed Regina, as she threw a shilling to the lavender girl. It was one of her last, but she knew it would bear fruit a hundred-fold. Vivian drew up the window gently, and clasped her hand. ' You would make all the world as happy as yourself, Regina, if you could !' he said fondly. ' Of course. But that poor creature looked so ill. I am sure a meal will do her good.' ' You are so kind-hearted,' continued Vivian, 'that I have no hesitation in asking your sympathy for a little girl I know — a good little soul, though in the lower classes — £ VLL. the granddaughter, in fact, os my old land lady Mrs. Bell. ' Yes.

Is she ill ?' ' I hope not ! She was blooming enough when I saw her last. Poor little Bonnie ! But they were very good to me, both grand mother and granddaughter, at a time when I valued the kindness of even such humble friends, and I am afraid I have been very ungrateful. Fancy, I have never been near the house since I left it ! I saw you, you witch, and you entrapped me at once, and I have had no eyes nor ears for any one since. I wonder what they think of my defection.' ' They could hardly expect you to find time to visit them amidst all the engagements of a London season.' ' Oh, they know nothing of the multifarious duties of a season ! They are as innocent as if they had lived all their lives in the country instead of Drury Lane.' £ VLL. 11 ' I hope you don't want me to go to Drury Lane, Vivian !

Mamma is so afraid of those sorts of places.' 'My darling! as if I would let you. No! what I thought was that I should like to give my old friends a present when I marry, and that it would come more gracefully from you than from me. A black silk dress for the old lady, and anything you think a young woman in that station of life would like best, for Bonnie. You could choose them so much better than I could, and I would send it to them in your name.' ' Certainly, if you wish it. But would not that come better after the 8th of September than before ?' ' I think you are right, as you always are. But in that case you must bear it in mind yourself, for I shall have time to think of nothing but you.' By which means it fell out that neither E VIL. Bonnie nor Mrs. Bell ever saw the presents which it was settled Mrs. Vivian Chasemore was to select for them.

When they reached Howell and [James's, it was with difficulty Lady William could be persuaded to leave the carriage. Although she had been grumbling to herself all the while, because the easy springs she sat on and the rich brocaded silk cushions she leant against were not to be hers, but her daughter's, she liked them so well that she would have much preferred sitting there, ' making believe,' as the children say, that she was enjoying her own property, to look ing at cases of diamond and ruby and emerald rings. However, Regina was in exorable in her demands that her chaperon should accompany her inside the jeweller's establishment, and Lady William was compelled to obey. The choice took a long time. Each drawer of glittering "rings EVLL. 13 looked more tempting than the last, and the settings were so varied and so beautiful.

At last Vivian, glancing at his watch, remembered a pressing engagement at his club, which would only, however, detain him a few moments. So, asking permission of the ladies to leave them to make the final decision and to call for him on their way home, he quitted the shop and drove to Pall Mall, sending back the carriage immediately for them. Even then they were not quite ready, for Regina kept trying on, first a half hoop and then a cluster of diamonds on her little finger, quite unable to order which should be sent to her address. At last, how ever, the decision was arrived at, and they rose to follow Vivian. As they stood at the door, waiting for the carriage to draw up, Regina noticed a girl leaning in a drooping attitude against the iron palings. She did not look ill, nor very EVIL. poor.

Her stuff dress was good and new, and her little straw hat was neatly trimmed. But her large blue eyes were cast upwards with so sad and despairing an expression that it arrested Miss Nettleship's attention, even though there was no one by before whom it was her interest to appear humane and charitable. ' Are you ill ?' she inquired of the girl. The blue eyes glanced for a moment wonderingly at her fashionable dress and golden-crowned head (for Regina, although so poor, was always attired in the latest mode), and then drooped wearily again. ' No, ma'am !' with a sad little shake of the head. ' What is the matter with you, then ?' ' Nothing ! nothing ! I thought I saw a friend, but he is gone ! Indeed it is nothing'.' O ' Is she mad ?' whispered Miss Nettleship £ VLL. 15 in an awestruck tone to the shopman, who had bowed them to the door. ' Oh no, madam !

There are plenty like her about. We are pestered with them every moment. Come now,' he continued in a loud tone to the girl, ' move away from here, will you, or I shall send for the police I* ' Don't be harsh to her !' said Regina, with feminine pity. Did some prevision of the dark future flash through her mind at that moment, and make her experience a womanly compassion for the poor soul who should suffer through her guilt ? Who can tell ? But she almost felt as if she would like to touch the stranger's hand. ' Here is something to help you,' she added, as she put money in the girl's listless palm. Bonnie — for it was indeed Bonnie who stood there to rest and think — gazed at the silver for an instant inquiringly, and then replaced it in Regina's hand. EVLL. ' No, thank you, ma'am !' she said quietly ' I've got plenty of money at home.' ' Come away ! come away !' whispered Lady William, as she clutched her daughter's arm. ' How can you stand there talking to that creature ?

Can't you see she's drunk ! Really, Regina,' she continued, as they re entered the carriage and drove to Pall Mall, 'you have no sense of your own position. The idea of stopping to talk to people in the open street ! What can the footman think of you ?' ' It is very little consequence to me what he thinks, mamma. He will be my servant in another week, and will have to think as I do!' ' But the woman was intoxicated !' ' She was no such thing !' ' The idea of contradicting your mother upon such a subject ! What can you know of it ?' ' You have given me plenty of experience, mamma, with Mrs. Runnymede and other of your friends. If I do not know a tipsy woman from a sober one by this time, it is not from the want of being able to compare them.' At which cruel statement Lady William relapsed into indignant reproaches, which continued until Vivian ran smiling down the steps of his club to join them again.

Meanwhile Mrs. Bell was jogging from one little shop to another, asking all her neighbours if they had happened to set eyes on Bonnie. ' On Bonnie ?' exclaimed Mrs. Bull, the wife of the butcher at the corner. ' Lor', bless my soul, Mrs. Bell, ma'am, you don't mean to tell me as you lets that gal go trapesing anywheres without your know ledge ?' 'No, indeed, Mrs. Bull! I know my duty VOL. II. '9 EVIL. to the child better than that comes to, but Bonnie has been very queer and unsettled lately, and I can't make 'er out. She's so undependable like. If I send 'er of an errant, off she is, like a shot, and don't come back forhours. And'tain't to be expected, Mrs. Bull, as I can run of errants myself, at my time of life, nor keep a servant to run 'em for me.* ' Maybe the gal's sickenin' for summat.

Both Joe Mason's children lie dead of the dipthery, and they tell me as scarlet-fever is broken out in the next street.' ' Oh no, it ain't that ! Bonnie's bin allays peculiar in the head ; and as for fevers, why we lives in the midst of 'em here !' ' Aye, that we do !' acquiesced Mrs. Bull ; * and nasty fevers they air too — allays taking off the wrong people. Didn't I lose my two blessed boys the year afore last with the typhoid, and there's that brute Bull as 'earty as the day's long !' 'Just so, Mrs. Bull; though (if I must speak the truth) those boys of your'n were no loss to the street, whatever they may have been to you. However, that's got nothing to do with my gal, who's not bin home this mornin' since eleven o'clock.' ' Why on hearth don't you marry 'er hoff, Mrs. Bell ? I expect there's many a young seller would take her, for she's a person able-lookin' gal enuff, when her 'air's straight.' ' That's just it, Mrs. Bull.

Bonnie goes agen me in everythink. Kit Masters would marry her to-morrer, but she won't 'ave a word to say to 'im.' ' And Masters must be doin' finely, too.' ' Aye, that he is ! — and just come into a fortune of fifty pounds into the bargain !' 'You don't say so, Mrs. Bell ! 'Ow's that ?' ' I can't say — somebody leave it 'im, I suppose ; 'e didn't tell me, but 'e's got it sure 19 — EVLL. enuff. And it mio;ht be all Bonnie's for the askin' !' ' Lor', the gal must be a fool ! A young feller like that didn't ought to 'ave to hask twice. But ain't that Bonnie's hat comin' down the street now ?' ' To be sure ! there's my lady a-comin' 'ome at two o'clock, and bin gone since eleven — and not a thing done in the 'ouse ! It's enuff to break one's 'eart ! But I'll be even with her, never fear. Good-day to you, Mrs. Bull. ' Good-day, Mrs. Bell, ma'am ; and 'opin' you'll manage to bring that gal to 'er senses.' Having finished her interesting conversa tion, Mrs. Bell walked slowly to her own house, which she reached just as Bonnie had hung up her hat and shawl upon a peg, and seated herself behind the counter. ' Oh ! so you're 'ome again, miss, are ye ?' commenced her grandmother angrily. ' And £ VLL. 21 where may you 'ave bin for the last three hours ? — answer me that.' ' Don't bother me, grandmother,' replied the girl, wearily. ' Don't bother ye ? you independent gad about !

Do you think you can leave a respectable house at all times, and come and go as you choose. You can't then, and I'll have no more of it. Now, where have you bin?' ' I've bin after no harm.' ' I don't know that ! respectable gals don't trape about the streets all by theirselves. Who 'ave you bin a-seein' of, or a-talkin' to ?' ' No one — at least, a lady spoke to me, but I suppose that won't kill me.' ' A lady ! What did she say ?' ' She asked me if I was ill.' ' In course ! No real lady would think but what a gal was ill as lounged about all day doing nothink. Now, Bonnie, you listen to me. I won't have no more of it. You don't leave the house agen after this day unless I goes along of ye.' ' Oh, I must get out and have a bit of fresh air!' exclaimed the girl, impatiently. ' I can't bide in this hot street all day.

It makes me sick, with the smells and the dirt and the noise. If ye don't let me run out for a breath when I feels the want of it, I'll run straight off, and never come back to you. So now you know my mind, grandmother.' Old Mrs. Bell stood aghast. She had always known Bonnie to be what she called 'peculiar,' but she had never yet heard her give vent to such an expression of rebellion as this. She had been an indolent, dream ing, forgetful sort of girl all her life ; but this was the first time she had actually refused to obey her grandmother, or hinted that there was a possibility of their lots being divided. ' Well, of all the ungrateful, wicked, scheming 'ussies I ever see,' cried Mrs. Bell, ' you're the very wust ! Don't you know as I brought you up from a hinfant, to be what you are ; and not content with wearin' out my life with your lazy, do-nothin' ways, you must go and perpose to leave me altogether.

Oh, I'm glad my poor Joe never lived to see this day ! He was a good lad, he was, who loved 'is poor mother, and would have slapped your face afore 'e'd 'ave let you speak to me in this manner. But you never was a bit like him in body or soul — more's the pity — and I only hope he ain't bin a-hearin' in heaven the words as you've just said to me.' ' Why can't you leave me alone, then ?' ex claimed Bonnie, in her turn. ' All I ask for is peace and quiet, and not to have that horrid feller Kit Masters thrust down my throat every minnit. It's enuff to make a gal run away to be asked to marry a low creature like that !' VIL. ' A low creature, indeed ! That's your manners, is it ? Why, he's just come into a fortin of fifty pounds in gold !' ' What's that to me ? I don't want him nor his fifty pounds.

I dare say he stole 'em. All I want is to have a walk now and again ; and one would think that walkin' was a crime, by the way you goes on at me about it.' ' No, Bonnie ! walkin' ain't a crime,' replied Mrs. Bell, solemnly; 'but leavin' the house and the shop to be minded by your poor grand mother at her time of life, when you know what the stairs is to her, is a crime and a grievance ; and what's more, I won't stand it.' 'I'm sure I've always dusted and cleaned the rooms as they should be,' rejoined Bonnie. ' You've often said as I spent too much time on 'em.' ' Yes, on the hupper rooms ; but they're not the kitchen-floor nor yet the shop. When Mr. Waverley was here, you was allays at 'ome, doin' this, that, or t'other : but now that we've got no lodger, you seems to me as restless as a cat in a strange place, and as if you could never settle to a thing.

And now, whathever are you a-cryin' for ?' For Bonnie had laid her head down upon the counter and burst into a violent flood of tears, which prevented her for some minutes from answering her grandmother's question. ' Well, I do feel unsettled and ill into the barg'in, and that's the truth. I suppose it's this hot weather and never havin' any change.' ' You might 'ave change and to spare, if you wouldn't be so hobstinate. There's Kit bin a-speakin' to me agen about you — and worryin' to have the banns put up. I'm sure I wonder 'e cares tuppence for sich a contrairy creetur ; but there's no accountin for men's likin's. You'd better think over the matter agen, Bonnie, and take 'im. You won't 'ave sich another chance in a blue moon, and that's my opinion. ' Well, then, I wont 'ave 'im, and that's mine !' cried Bonnie, passionately. ' I'll see 'im dead fust, and myself too, for that matter.

Not that I cares much when I dies,' she continued, relapsing into quiet weeping, ' for I'm sure I wish I was under the ground now, along of father and mother ; for my life's a misery to me, and the sooner it's over the better.' ' And what should make it a misery, I'd like to know ?' said Mrs. Bell, sharply. ' You've got plenty of food and drink and good clothes, and a tight roof over your 'ead ; and you might 'ave a husband into the bargain, as most gals 'ud jump at, but you treats the poor feller like dirt under your feet. What would you 'ave more, I wonder ? tell me that, now!' ' Oh, I don't know ; I don't know !' ex claimed poor Bonnie, rocking herself back wards and forwards; 'but I wishes I was dead, I do — I wishes I was dead !'

Chapter II

' you may tell 'im that i'll DO IT.' Bonnie did not give up her wanderings, for all her grandmother's railing ; and Mrs. Bell was too much afraid of her granddaughter to press the matter and force her to remain at home. She was so unlike other girls, the old woman hardly knew what the conse quences of opposition might be. There was a quiet persistence about her, which was more likely to gain her own way than any amount of loud talking and opposition. So she continued to slip away whenever her presence was not immediately necessary, and walk listlessly about the streets, in the vague hope of finding she hardly, knew what. She did not entirely neglect her duties at home, poor child ! The ' hupper rooms,' as Mrs. Bell designated her first floor, were as carefully kept as they used to be in the days when they were occupied.

The pictures Alfred Waverley had pasted on the wall were religiously dusted, and the little room looked as clean and invitingas thoug-h he were still expected to return to it. It was poor Bonnie's temple, and she wor shipped there regularly, sending up her silent prayers in deep sighs to the memory of the idol who had once dwelt in the shrine. But she was more dreamy and absent than before : more useless, in fact, than she had ever been in the domestic duties of the house and shop : and many an old customer shook her head on leaving it, and said she was very much afraid that Mrs. EVIL. Bell's girl was gsoing* ' clean out of her head.' Bonnie was growing prettier than ever, for fretting had reduced her figure and refined her features, whilst the unalterable beauties of her face, her limpid blue eyes and soft abundant hair, naturally remained the same.

Of course all this pining and misery was in consequence of Alfred Waverley's departure. Mrs. Bell did not suspect the cause, but poor Bonnie knew it well enough for herself. Yet she could not say she had any good reason to fret. She had never entertained any hopes in that quarter : in fact, she had never recognised the feeling she entertained for their lodger until he had so suddenly left them. Three months had passed since that time — three long despairing months — and he had never come back even to see how they were getting on without him. Once, a parcel of illustrated books had arrived, addressed to Bonnie ; but they had been sent straight from the publisher, and there was only a slip of paper inside one of them, with the inscription ' From Alfred Waverley.' The books were ranged upon her chest of drawers, dusted a dozen times a day, and never dusted without beingkissed ; but the donor had not followed his gift.

And it was to try and see him that Bonnie slipped away whenever she had an opportunity, and roamed up and down the dusty London streets, peering wistfully into the face of every passer-by, in hopes of meeting the features she so much loved. Once, she had seen him dashing down the Strand in a curricle which he drove himself; but he had been too much occupied with his horses to hear the faint cry of pleasure with which she saluted him, or to see the figure of the girl — one amongst so many — that shrank back into the crowd as he drove out of sight. Another time, she had passed him almost shoulder to shoulder, as she leant against the railings of the Park gates gazing idly at the stream of carriages and people who were driving or walking up and down Rotten Row. She had nearly failed to recognise on that occasion, in the fashionably-dressed young man, with a gardenia in his button-hole and the smallest of canes in his hand, their ci devant lodger, Alfred Waverley, for Bonnie knew Vivian Chasemore by no other name.