CHAP. XIII. An old Enemy, with a new Face.

In the month of April we received frequent visits from the Miss Turners, who having persuaded my mistress to put a little fruit in her windows, took this opportunity of further befriending her; they however left town the first week in May. Mrs. Arnot soon after took cold, in consequence of getting wet in returning from market. Her complaint ended in the Rheumatism, which prevented our accustomed little journeys. A neighbour, who sometimes chatted over the palings which enclosed our house, advised her letting her cart by the day, and give up going to market. My mistress hesitated more than a week, at length she assented, and my life was now totally altered.

One day, I fetched and carried linen for a laundress; on the next, a pair of panniers dangled at my sides; and accompanied by a man whose voice almost deafened me, I was the bearer of a weight such as I had never before sustained.

On these days I always observed, that in proportion as my load lessened, I experienced his favour or anger, and though I could not possibly have any influence on the public taste, it seemed that my driver thought otherwise, and revenged his ill fortune on my poor sides. Yet I was compelled to smile sometimes, when he would recommend his asparagus, &c. &c. as fresh from the gardens, when the truth was, they were the refuse of those large green-grocers who must daily be supplied with fresh vegetables. At last to complete my degradation, I was deemed to work one whole day for a chimney-sweeper. This arrangement was made by the neighbour of my mistress, who unmindful of my feelings, only stipulated for the black gentleman’s providing his own harness.

I rather wondered Mrs. Arnot should assent to my being thus employed; and while a sort of trappings were manufactured of old ropes, I looked anxiously in at the windows, hoping her humanity might yet save me from this odious appointment. She was not visible, and I set off somewhat out of humour I confess. O! what a tedious day did it seem! My nerves were in a state of irritation truly pitiable. I suppose I must not say we sneeze; as an emotion indicative of extreme sensibility you may not choose us to share it in common, but I declare, I think, I sneezed on this unfortunate day. My head was in constant action—a sort of tremor agitated my tongue, accompanied by a noise not unlike the snorting of a horse.

After perambulating through half the streets of London, I was, late at night, conveyed to my humble home. Alas! my mistress’s kind care was wanting, my tub was dry; no cheering good-night met my ears; all was gloom; and spiritless and disappointed I endeavoured to compose myself to sleep.

Mrs. Corsan the good neighbour of my mistress, paid me a visit in the morning, bringing a pail of water in her hand. “Poor fellow,” said she, “I’m afraid your kind mistress will never give you another herself.” I stared her in the face, but must have remained ignorant of her meaning had not a man stopped to inquire after Mrs. Arnot.

“She’s very bad,” said. Mrs. Corsan, “hasn’t closed her eyes all night; you see that fellow’s coming has made her worse; poor soul, it’s hard she can’t live at peace after meeting with such good friends.”

“I wish the family was in town,” replied the man, “I’d let ’em know, that I would. She has no right to be made a beggar for such an idle rogue as that!”

“So I told her,” continued Mrs. Corsan, “but it’s no use advising her; she says he is her own brother’s child, and if helping him will save him from wicked ways, she must do it while she has a shilling.”

“And he will take her last shilling: he has no more heart than a stone. He got money of her last night, and I saw him at an ale-house directly after.”

“Well, I’m determined I wont leave the house to-day,” resumed Mrs. Corsan; “and if he does come, I’ll tell him my mind.”

“Do so,” said the man: “I could find in my heart to write to some of Mr. Turner’s servants. But if she isn’t better by Sunday, I shall be at leisure then, and will go to Blackheath—it is but a pleasant walk.”

The kind-hearted Corsan blessed this honest creature, while I watched his departure—fancying the tranquillity such a man must feel within himself. The indisposition of my mistress gave me serious uneasiness. I wandered round the house, peeping in at the windows, in the hope of seeing her: fortunately, this proved a day of bodily rest;—I say fortunately, for in the afternoon, as I was strolling: by the door, I heard a faint voice say,

“Ah! poor fellow; are you looking for me?” It was my dear mistress—I hastened to greet her—the day was warm and the sash thrown up. She patted my head, and seemed truly glad to see me, inquiring of her friend, if she had thought of giving me water. Mrs. Corsan’s attentions claimed my gratitude, which I evinced by rubbing my head against her arm, in token of recognisance. While I was thus basking in the presence of my good friends, the garden gate was opened—I turned intuitively, and beheld Jenkins.

My mistress looked agitated, he approached the window, and leaning on the sill exclaimed,

“Why old lady, you look a hundred per cent. better than you did yesterday; you wont die this time.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Corsan, stepping forward, “and while I’m her nurse, I’ll take care she shall be kept quiet.”

“That’s what I say,” retorted Jenkins, “and I advise her to sell her cart and Donkey and enjoy herself while she can, and I know a man who wou’d be glad to buy ’um.”

“No indeed, that must not be,” said Mrs. Corsan; “she can let ’um out while she is sick; besides, she must not offend the family that gave them to her.”

“A gift’s a gift!” sneered Jenkins; “I should like to hear any body tell me what I was to do with my own property.”

“Then leave me to do as I please with mine,” said my mistress, feebly.

“She’ll do,” laughed Jenkins; and taking me by the mane, he said, I was “a fine Donkey, a very fine Donkey, worth three guineas of any body’s money.”

Admire my self-possession;—no turn or look of mine betrayed that I had ever seen him. And indeed, had not his peculiar voice been an indisputable proof of his identity, his strangely-altered person might have led me to discredit the accuracy of my visual perception. He was no longer the stout, healthy-looking man I remembered at Penrose:—his face was florid, but it was the flush of intemperance; while his almost skeleton figure bespoke any thing but health.

Mrs. Arnot really seemed afraid of him: and when he asked for something to eat, I thought she trembled. He entered the house, and as his voice grew elevated, I heard Mrs. Corsan arguing with him to be moderate. The Turner family were named, and the word Blackheath; but I could not attach any thing certain to what I overheard. He went away early in the evening, and for two days we saw no more of him. On the third, he again made his appearance. Mrs. Corsan forbade him admission, declaring his aunt was in bed, and had been getting worse ever since his last visit. Jenkins ridiculed this—said, he must see his aunt, he had a message for her from the Miss Turners, who had sent her some wine that was to cure her.

“Why you haven’t been there?” exclaimed Corsan.

“To be sure I have though,” replied Jenkins; I took care what I was about, and didn’t say I was her nephew; I knew better than that: they took me for a neighbour, and gave me a good dinner for my trouble.”

“She will break her heart if she hears this, you cruel man; haven’t you once been her ruin? She might have had a comfortable house over her head, and lived like a lady if it hadn’t been for you.”

Jenkins grew abusive, forced his way into the house, and I was left to conjecture the consequences of this unfeeling outrage.

Alas! before Sunday arrived, my poor mistress was no more: her feeble frame sunk under the conflict of disease heightened by the brutality of her nephew. Jenkins kept possession of the house—a violence his relationship to the deceased seemed to sanction. He was her heir, and such had been the correctness of her worldly dealings, the little furniture, the cart, and myself remained unincumbered by any claim whatever.

Mrs. Corsan, whose zealous indignation knew no bounds, threatened to apprize the Turner family of Jenkins’s imposition. He took fright at this, and ere my mistress was buried, called in a broker, had the goods valued, and actually sold the cart and your humble servant to a dealer in crockery-ware. I was to quit Somer’s Town next morning; but so secretly had he conducted his villany, Mrs. Corsan knew nothing of my destination.

As I stood gazing at our humble dwelling, and thinking of the calm pleasures I had enjoyed in the service of my respected mistress, my old friend Matthew alighted from a horse and entered the garden. The poor fellow started back as he saw the closed windows. Mrs. Corsan, (who would not quit the house till the last duties were performed,) led him into the garden, and, with great tenderness, told her little tale. Matthew was too much affected to speak for some minutes;—then, resting his arm across me, he sighed.

“Well, I’m sure our people will be truly sorry,” said he, “she was such a good old woman: I little expected to find things as they are. I came on an ugly errand. Pray can you tell me where the man lives that brought us word Mrs. Arnot was ill?”

“Not I,” replied Mrs. Corsan; “it was her wicked nephew; he deceived you, and, God forgive me, but I shall always lay her death to him; he flurried her, and she was too weak to bear it.”

“And as sure as the world, he robbed us,” rejoined Matthew. “We missed two silver forks and a table spoon soon after he was gone, and the butler had somehow a suspicion about him; so I said, I would come and inquire what sort of character he bore.”

“He has no character that’s good. Why he has sold every stick to a broker, and got the money, or a part of it. I’ve seen nothing of him to-day, and if he’s done as you suspect, he’ll take care to keep out of the way.”

“And what will he do with the cart and Donkey?” asked Matthew, kindly regarding me.

“It’s impossible to say: perhaps that’s sold too. He’s afraid of me, because I fetched my husband to prevent his having a parcel of people in here to drink with him.”

“Well, as I dont know how master would act, if he knew this rogue was poor Mrs. Arnot’s nephew, I can say nothing, only I think hanging is too good for him.”

“Aye, he’ll meet his punishment, no doubt,” resumed Corsan: “why when I knew Mrs. Arnot fifteen years ago, she had as good a house and furniture as you shall see; and what makes it worse, she gave this fellow his learning, and bound him to a printer, where he might have done well:—he got into debt, however, and she was forced to help him; then he came home to live with her—this was her ruin: from one thing to another she parted with all her property, and at last took to selling garden-stuff. But it is so hard to think, that just when she might have been comfortable, through the goodness of your family, this wicked man should come and destroy her.”

Matthew was deeply sensible of the worth of my mistress, and said all that was humane and considerate to her truly firm friend.

“Well, if this scroundrel appears,” said he, “it might be as well to give him a hint that we suspect him; for I confess, I should not like to have any hand in bringing him to justice, on poor Mrs. Arnot’s account. But, do you know, one of our maids said she was sure he was an impostor, and when the butler gave him the wine in charge, she saw something shine in his pocket as the bottle was being put in.”

“I’m afraid it is like him,” sighed Corsan.

Matthew took a melancholy leave of this good woman, and as he patted me, said, “I wonder if this poor fellow is sold or not: our young ladies would willingly have him again, I’m sure.”

Mrs. Corsan could give him no information on the subject, and he departed.

Think what my feelings were at the bare suggestion of such happiness, when I knew how I really was engaged. The sketch I had heard of Jenkins’s history was truly painful: that sullenness I had observed in him when in the service of Dr. Manton, now appeared characteristic;—to a man of his vicious turn of mind, good humour must ever be a stranger. There must be a sort of harmony between the actions and the feelings of the person in whom this gracious charm of character is discernable. For my own part, I should as soon expect to meet forbearance in a hungry tiger, as equability of temper in the being whose conscience is his constant (though secret) accuser.

What a singular fate was mine!—again to be a the disposal of this wretched man. But the actual misery he had occasioned my late respected mistress, would not permit me to think of self. There was some consolation in knowing I should not be his slave:—thus I looked to the morrow, if not with pleasure, at least with calm resignation.

My purchaser arrived at an early hour next morning. Mrs. Corsan vehemently opposed my removal until she could send for her husband. The man waited patiently, and upon hearing a detail of Jenkins’s conduct, seemed to regret having had any dealings with him: but he had paid three guineas in advance, and had appointed an hour to conclude the bargain. Mr. Corsan joined us, offered his opinion, and strongly advised the man to get off his bargain. This did not suit my new master; he wanted a cart and Donkey, had made a fair proposal, which had been accepted, and producing a written agreement signed by Jenkins, the Corsans had nothing further to say: I was harnessed to the cart, and bade adieu to Somer’s Town as a residence.