Chapter IV

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Devereux had received calmly the news of the arrival of a young heiress. The matter had been kept so close that it burst upon him with a surprise as great as that which it had caused to Mr. Smythe, and the surprise overwhelmed him. He was a man who, though with a hard, unimaginative mind, always believed what he chose to believe. He had decided that there would be no Master or Miss Smythe, and having so decided, he had felt little anxiety on the subject. He had made his plans for dealing with a mad old man and a silly young wife, and having made his plans he rested.

The arrival of a child overset his plans. Will or no will, no one could say that a child was not the nearest of kin to its own father. He was unable to form his plans for the future, and his mind became tossed with passion. The only settled plan he could form was, that the child should die; not die by his plotting, he was not bad enough for that; but that it must and should die. It was a hateful intruder in the world, and it was no doubt intended to die. His mind prone, as was said, to believe what it wished, shortly began to believe this. The agreeable subject of his daily wishes was the death of an infant, and by means of wishes he began to be convinced it would be so.

Meanwhile the child lived and grew, and no tales of its unhealthiness were heard.

No communication had ever taken place between the families. In sundry disagreeable ways Mr. Devereux managed to keep himself and his rights in Mr. Smythe’s mind; but he allowed no visiting. When Mrs. Smythe was confined, a maternal fellow-feeling had drawn from Mrs. Devereux an expression of a wish to make her acquaintance and see the baby. But it had been received with a negative so fierce and savage that she yielded at once. No doubt Simon had his good reasons.

When Annora was nearly a year old, she one day met Mrs. Ratcliffe. The Devereuxs lived beyond Kensington, and Mrs. Ratcliffe had been on a visit to a sick relation in the same quarter. She was walking along the road to find an omnibus, and Mrs. Devereux was taking a walk with her two children.

Mrs. Ratcliffe and Letitia Allen had been good friends before, and friends in a degree after Letitia’s marriage. She had, however, so resented the neglect of Mrs. Smythe that of late the friendship had lapsed into a quiet enmity. Mrs. Devereux neglected Mrs. Smythe, and she in return neglected Mrs. Devereux. When, however, she saw her leading a fine little boy by the hand, her enmity for the moment ceased. She could not resist stopping to ask her how she did, and begging for a kiss from the fine little boy.

Poor Letitia had felt no enmity. She had not indeed a heart strong enough to nourish any strong passion; and though, in obedience to her husband, it liked and disliked at his pleasure, they were mild sensations, liable to be overset at the very least temptation. She forgot all about the strife, and turned and walked and talked with Mrs. Ratcliffe; easing her mind of many anxious questions regarding the health of Mrs. and Miss Smythe.

Mrs. Ratcliffe had too much wisdom and dignity to enter on unpleasant topics. She made no allusion to the coolness that had taken place, but, when she went home, observed to Mrs. Smythe that it was no fault of Mrs. Devereux’s that she did not call; and expatiating on the charms of the boy, stirred up her young mistress to interest and curiosity concerning him. He was, she explained to her, between three and four years old, and had “such a sweet, rosy, mischievous face, she should have liked to have cooked and eaten him on the spot.”

Mrs. Smythe was much excited, and inquired whether she thought she might send him a present. Most christianly anxious to appease strifes, Mrs. Ratcliffe encouraged the idea, and they went together to the Soho Bazaar, from whence a large and handsome cart and team of horses, the cart full of sacks, were despatched to the villa beyond Kensington. It was addressed--

“_For Mr. Henry Devereux,
With Miss Smythe’s love._”

This was a master-stroke of policy. Mrs. Ratcliffe could read the bad feelings which Mr. Devereux entertained towards Mrs. Smythe both in his conduct and his countenance; but the poor little innocent baby was, she supposed, for the present at least, an innocent object in his eyes.

When Mr. Devereux came down to dinner on the evening after the arrival of the present, his children, as was generally the case, for he dined early, were brought down and sat in a corner. When he was in a good temper he liked them to be there, for he was fond of his children in a certain way; and if he was in a bad temper, he liked them to be there, as it gave him more opportunities of finding fault with his submissive wife than he might otherwise have found. Of late he had indeed always been in a bad temper. The gnawing hate he felt to the unwelcome child left no peace in his heart. But even a bad temper has its variations. There are no good days perhaps, but there are very bad days and moderate days. This was a moderate day. Shortly before his arrival at home he had forced a tradesman who demurred to give him discount on a bill, and this had produced a certain glow of satisfaction. Instead therefore of saying, “What a row these children make!--hush! hush! hush!” he observed, when dinner was about half concluded, “What has happened to Letitia’s tongue to-day?”

There were certainly other reasons besides moderation of temper that called for this observation. For the last ten minutes the children had not been quiet only, they had been dumb. Intense curiosity regarding the contents of the sacks possessed them, and one armed with a rusty nail, the other with a large crooked yellow pin, were hacking away at the seams and necks of the sacks. But at the very moment he spoke, the quiet was broken. Letitia was nearly five years old, and her crooked pin, though a feeble instrument, had at last produced an effect. A drop of bran, like a drop of blood, began to ooze out of a hole in the seam. Henry screamed with joy, and attempted to gain possession of Letitia’s sack. Mr. Devereux looked at his wife, to inquire what was going on.

Now Mrs. Devereux had fully intended to tell her husband what had occurred; she had been thinking of it ever since he returned home, and was only watching for a favourable opportunity. Nevertheless, there was a slight blush on her cheek as she said, “It is rather a long story; I was going to tell you, Simon.”

The fact was, when the present arrived, she and her children had been so enraptured with its appearance, that, forgetting the strife and her husband’s probable displeasure, they had all sat upon the floor to unpack and enjoy it. Afterwards a fear had arisen that she ought to have awaited his consent to receive it; and though she said to herself, “From the baby he cannot mind,” she was perfectly aware that it was at the best a doubtful matter.

Mr. Devereux saw the blush and guessed a cause. He waited with cold staring eyes to hear the long story; and it was given, haltingly, hesitatingly, apologetically, and diffusely.

Then he rang the bell.

“Bring back the wrappers of the parcel that arrived this afternoon,” he said sternly. He was obeyed. A number of sheets of brown paper were brought into the room. “That will do,” he said, and the servant went. “Now pack it up,” he said to his wife.

Mrs. Devereux rose. She saw he was angry, angry in his worst manner--coldly, sternly angry; but she did not blame him. She felt how wrong she had been. Desirous to do her best, she now coaxed the children into assisting her, by saying she was going to put the cart to bed.

“No, it is not going to bed,” thundered out her husband. “It is going away for good.”

The children looked at him. They were too much awed to cry; and Mrs. Devereux hastily finished the packing while they sat staring at their father. It was only when it was fairly hidden, and the cord was being tied, that little Henry recovered his self-possession. When he did recover it he laid his fat hand on the parcel, clenched his teeth, and shouted,

“It’s mine, and it shan’t go away!”

“Set it down, sir!” again thundered out the father, and again the children were awed into staring wonder.

After a moment Mr. Devereux spoke again, and this time coldly and calmly--

“Listen to me,” he said. “That parcel was sent by a person who has no right to send it. She is your enemy. She has robbed you--_robbed you_; mind what I say. She must not pretend to love you, and you must not love her.”

The children were young, but they were excited at this explanation. The little girl, a sharp-featured, forward child, with a great deal of her father in her face, came towards the table, and asked pertly,

“Shall I hate her?”

“You may. You have good right. I hate her because she has robbed _you_.”

“I hate her!” said the child, with emphasis.

The little boy now approached, and put his chin on the table.

“And _I_ hate her,” he said.

Though the childish face was “sweet, rosy and mischievous,” his cheeks flashed and his eyes kindled as he spoke; an innate consciousness that he was doing wrong made the words delightful to him, and he spoke them with heart-felt savageness.

Mrs. Devereux looked at her husband. She could hardly think this was a right education. She could hardly think this was a picture of Christian principles. She expected some word of disapprobation; but no such came.

“That will do,” he said. “Remember. And now go to bed.”

It was some minutes before she could gather her senses sufficiently to summon her usual principle of guidance to her aid. When she did so, and had mentally observed “that Simon must know best,” she sighed a short, unwonted sigh, and then banished the subject from her mind.