Lydia Trent (17 page)

“
I
will not attempt to describe all I suffered in the three years I
remained with him. One or two examples will suffice to show the
character of the man. One evening he was on his way out with some of
his friends. I had neglected to put out a clean neckcloth – he flew
into a fury and half-choked me with the dirty one. A minute after he
had thrown me on the ground with a vile curse, leaving me struggling
to breathe and unable to rise for full half-an-hour, I heard him
laughing heartily and easily at a joke of one of his drinking-mates,
though but a minute earlier he had been purple with rage. On another
occasion he dragged me about the house by my hair because he was
displeased with the way I had dressed it that morning. Everything I
did was wrong, and an excuse for some act of violence or base cruelty
toward me. He would vanish for days at a time, yet beat me if I was
out of his sight for ten minutes which I could not account for. At
other times he would be tender and loving, though he reeked so of
drink that I found these times more of a trial to my spirit than the
violence.

“
We
had been married for more than two miserable years, when I became
filled with a new hope, that very soon I should at least have one
human creature on Earth whom I could love, and who would love me –
who would depend on me and yet not despise me. Alas, that was not to
be. One night, just a few weeks before I was due to be confined, my
husband came home having heard that I had been seen (Oh sin of
sins!),
talking to the milk-man
. In a jealous rage, he beat me
and threw me down the stairs. Later that night I was brought to bed
of a stillborn son.

“
As
soon as I could walk, I waited until the dead of night, when my lord
and master was sound asleep – or rather dead drunk, and crept away.
But where could I go? How could I hide so that he might never find
me?

“
I
hit on the idea of disguising myself as a boy – my recent
confinement made this difficult at first, but by binding my body
tightly and cropping my hair short, I believed I could pass for a
boy, if I made myself a little dirty – one of those ragged boys
nobody looks twice at.

“
I
tramped for many days in this guise – I had no money but managed
now and then to beg a bit of bread or earn a penny holding a horse.
Somehow I ended up at Whitby, where I encountered a press-gang, and
joined the Navy. I believe my secret was safe all these years –
though I was called 'the parson' because I was modest in my habits,
and spent my shore-leaves reading and exploring, rather than in low
taverns. I had had almost no education, and I burned to make up for
the deficiency, so how I devoured every sight and sound of those
foreign lands! I covered both my 'oddities' by affecting to be much
more strongly religious than I actually am, and so after a while I
was let alone, especially as I had also earned a reputation for
bravery. Why should I not be brave? My heart was in the grave of my
poor little one, I valued everyone's life above my own. And so, what
with my reputation, my thirst for knowledge, and the careful hoarding
of my prize-money, I was able to rise, in seven years, to the rank of
Captain. I hope I was a just and wise captain – I believe the men
thought me so, for though when I was injured they of course
discovered my secret, not one man among them betrayed me, and they
contrived to get me back to England without a soul suspecting my
identity.

“
And
it seems all this was for nothing – the man from whom I was hiding
was dead all the time, I am to discover but this morning. How I
longed to reveal myself to my sister, but believed it was not safe!”

Catherine's
narrative ended. Alfred was sitting with his face turned stolidly
away, so as not to betray the tears sliding stealthily down his
cheek. Lydia hid her face in a handkerchief, while one hand blindly
sought Catherine's, and, finding it, clutched it as if she would
never let go. Adeline had buried her face in her new-found sister's
shoulder, and sobbed quietly. As Catherine ceased speaking, the
tender-hearted girl flung her arms around her, crying out “Oh, we
will love you! I will love you – Dear Catherine, dear sister, I
love you already!”

Catherine's
story, though harrowing, did have this to say to it – that in
listening to and sympathising with Catherine's woes and wrongs, their
thoughts had been directed from their own sorrows as they left the
house which had been their home since they could remember.

Nevertheless,
they were in tolerably poor spirits when the cab drew to a stop
outside a pleasant townhouse in the district of Bayswater. It was a
deep, narrow white building, separated from the street by an 'area'
and a broad half-flight of stone steps, bounded by neatly burnished
iron railings. It was situated in a respectable, rather than a
'smart' square – in the middle of the square, surrounded by
railings and guarded by a gate to which each resident had a key, was
a bit of garden, with a smooth lawn, some bright flower beds, and a
couple of spindly trees.

Alfred
sprang lightly down from the cab to hand out the ladies – or
rather, to hand out Adeline, for Catherine was more accustomed to
Alfred's role, to being he who assists rather than she who is
assisted, and Lydia was not only of an independent nature, but also
far too conscious of the danger to her own heart, should she take
that hand, lean on that arm, while her emotions were in such a
fragile state. Alfred therefore turned back from helping Adeline to
find that both ladies had got themselves out under their own steam,
as the saying goes.

The
door opened whilst they were still engaged with paying the
cab-driver, shaking out their dresses, and settling their bonnets,
and there stood the gentleman of the house himself, for, having
glanced out the window when he heard the cab draw up, and perceived
the young ladies getting out, he had run down to open his own front
door and be the first to welcome his nieces.

How
pleasant a sight was his solid figure in the lamplight, and the
genuine smile of welcome on his honest face, and the avuncular hand
which he stretched out to each of his nieces.

John
Trent was a rarity in his profession – the stockbroker had spent
his commercial life speculating, in daily contact with large sums of
money, yet neither staggering profit or crushing loss, terrible risk
or dead certainty, had ever yet had the power to rob him of either
his honesty or his good humour. He had had a good mother, who had
brought up both her sons to be everything that is truly expressed by
the word 'gentleman'. On her account, he was a great respecter of the
feminine sex in general, but had remained a bachelor, having never
yet met the one woman which he felt his happiness could depend – or
who he might make truly happy. He sometimes joked that his brother
had got the one good thing in that line, in the shape of his first
wife, but this was generally understood to be a delicate compliment
to his sister-in-law, not an expression of concealed wishes.

After
showing them to a room where they could take off their things, the
good gentleman ushered his four guests upstairs to a pleasant
sitting-room, red-draperied and turkey-carpeted, rang for hot tea and
steaming buttered toast, and a man to take the girls bags upstairs,
pulled cozy, cushioned chairs to the fire with his own hand, and bid
the tired travellers to make themselves comfortable.

“
Now
then, my dearest girls, tell me what brings you to me in such haste?
For Lydia's telegraphic message did not, I am afraid, leave me much
the wiser.”

In
a very few words, Lydia attempted to sketch the history of the last
few days.

“
And,
Uncle,” cried Adeline, kissing him fondly, “We have but today
discovered my elder sister, Catherine. Please be kind to her – she
is in sore need of it.”

“
Well
then,” said Mr Trent, “You are perfectly welcome to make your
home with me for as long as you wish. I daresay my company will be
quite as dull as you can bear, but I am very glad to have you,
nonetheless. Today has been a fortunate day for me, I think, as it
has not only brought me some very pleasant houseguests,” patting
Adeline's arm, for she still hung about him, “but has also brought
me a third niece. Welcome, my dear, and I hope you will consider this
as much your home as do Lydia and Adeline.”

“
Oh,
Sir!” stammered Catherine, turning almost crimson, “I – I
cannot, I must not – there is no blood relationship between us...”

“
For
shame, for shame!” cried the gentleman, looking genuinely hurt at
this rebuff, “No more is there between Adeline and I, yet I regard
her as my niece all the same – and if you are her sister, so must
you be.”

His
forthright manner, the pleading expression on that kindly
countenance, and the genuineness of his wish to be of service to the
young lady were impossible to resist, and Catherine was fain to
submit.

And
so the matter was settled, and the three sisters took up their
residence in Bayswater. Alfred stayed at a nearby inn that night, and
contrived the next day to secure moderately comfortable lodgings,
which though they were somewhat mean and dingy, and a trifle
expensive, were within half-a-mile of John Trent's townhouse.

The
next morning after their arrival, Lydia found herself sick, weak, and
barely able to rise from her bed. Indeed she did attempt it, but was
soon glad to sink back among the pillows. The various alarms of the
past two days, the fatigue of the journey, her strained and sleepless
night watching over a madwoman, added to the wound in her arm, which
pained her more than she cared to admit, made her low and feverish.

“
Do
not worry yourselves about me,” she said, when Adeline expressed
concern, “I shall be right as ninepence by tomorrow.”

But
the morrow found her worse, and for many days Lydia was actually very
ill. By about the fourth day, she was very feverish, and wandered in
her mind. Catherine and Adeline nursed her together, and their shared
concern for their step-sister bound the two sisters closer together.
When the fever broke, at the end of a dreadful, anxious week, and the
doctors pronounced Lydia out of danger, the reserved Catherine
actually hugged Adeline for joy, and the two shed happy tears over
one another and their patient.

Lydia's
recovery was slow, and for several weeks after her illness she was
almost confined to the house, with only an occasional airing in a
closed carriage, well wrapped up, or later on, one or two slow turns
about the square's meagre garden-ground, to vary the scene.

Alfred
had come every day throughout her illness and her convalescence, and
although she was very glad to see him, bringing with him a little
taste of the outside world as he did, she was troubled.

Eventually
she found her moment to speak. Adeline and Catherine were at the
piano – Catherine, though a lover of music, had never had
opportunity to learn, and Adeline was attempting to teach her. The
youth and inexperience of the teacher was in some part atoned for by
the enthusiasm and aptitude of the pupil, for Catherine had a fine
natural taste and a good ear.

Under
cover of the noise of their lesson, Lydia took her opportunity, and
spoke to Alfred in a low tone.

“
Alfred,
I wish you would tell me what you have been doing all this time.”

“
Doing?
Why, whatever do you mean?”

“
We
have been in London nearly two months now – have you decided what
your profession will be? What steps have you taken toward
establishing yourself?”

“
Why,
Lydia! What is the rush? There is plenty of time for that.”

“
Is
there? You are six-and-twenty now, and I fear beginning to fall into
bad habits. I know you have been visiting here a great deal – what
else have you been doing? How have you spent your evenings?”

“
Well,
a man doesn't like to snub his friends, and after all I don't think I
have been doing anything very harmful – a few evenings at the
theatre, a few quiet dinners, a few hands of cards at the club –
when one is invited, what can one say?”

“
If
it is an invitation to drink and gamble, one can say 'no'. Tell me,
you used to pride yourself on saving out of your income – do you
still? I ask as a sister, you understand, not to be impertinent.”

“
It
is strange you should ask – somehow the money just seems to run
away like water in this town, I have actually had to dip into my
savings just to present a creditable appearance.”

“
And
a creditable appearance, I suppose, means a new pair of gloves every
week, and hansoms everywhere, and a bottle a night, and playing cards
for a guinea a point or more with the like of Montague Vane.” said
Lydia, and Alfred was surprised by the sudden bitterness in her
voice. “Yes, Uncle has told me what company you keep. Beware,
Alfred, those men are no friends to you. They will lead you into bad
ways, they will fleece you as much as they can, and then they will
abandon you.”