Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  CHAPTER II. A SHADOW THAT HEARS.

  For a considerable time there was a great deal of curiosity felt in Olney about Dudley Carleon, and the way in which he would manage his newly-acquired property. Everybody knew that the Carleons were not rich, and that the Grey Farm required a great amount of expenditure before it would produce much money. The land wanted draining, but poverty had prevented this being ever effectually done; and the owners of the land had dragged on, through good harvests and bad harvests, without ever enriching themselves or their children, and only too glad if they could pay their way. “How, then,” asked the inhabitants of Olney, “would Dudley Carleon succeed with the property out of which his father and his brother had obtained so little?”

  But the Olney people soon confessed that Dudley Carleon was by no means a bad farmer. He set vigorously to work, and with small expenses contrived to make great improvements. Useless hedges and old trees were ruthlessly done away with; ditches were dug in the low fields, and the water carried back to the river from which it came, while a superior breed of cattle fed in the dry pastures to those that had grazed in the sloppy meadows during Martin’s management. In short, to the surprise of everybody, the young Cantab seemed to be a better farmer than his brother had been.

  But when complimented on his good management, Mr. Carleon was wont to say that he himself had very little part in the improvements on the Grey Farm, since they were the work of Ralph, his bailiff, and his greatest treasure.

  If this remark happened to be made by Dudley while showing a neighbour over the farm, a closely-cropped black head, a pale face, and two gray eyes would generally emerge from behind some barn or out-building, or look down from the top of some haystack, and Ralph, the farm-bailiff, himself would appear, tugging at the close-cropped black hair in acknowledgment of his master’s praise.

  It seemed to Dudley Carleon’s acquaintance rather a peculiarity in the manners and customs of this farm-bailiff that wherever his master happened to be there he was to be found. This was, of course, purely accidental; but it was an accident of such frequent occurrence that it became a subject for observation. If Dudley Carleon gave a dinner-party, Ralph the bailiff took upon himself the office of butler, and waited at table, bringing with him into the dining-room a powerful odour of hay and beans, and generally doing some small damage to the service of old china which had belonged to his master’s great-grandmother. It was perfectly obvious that the awkwardness of the farm-servant gave considerable annoyance to the polished host; it was still more obvious that he hesitated to show such annoyance; he appeared, indeed, to consult the feelings of his bailiff before those of his guests or himself.

  Sleek, dark, and pale, Ralph, the treasure of servants, would stand behind his master’s chair, listening attentively to every word that was said.

  If on a summer’s evening Dudley lounged with a friend smoking his cigar on the grass-plot in front of the house, the farm-bailiff suddenly became a gardener, and was busy transplanting geraniums or setting cuttings of pinks. If, on a dark night, the young man accompanied an acquaintance part of the way back to Olney, the farm-bailiff was always at his heels ready to open the gates or show the way with a lantern. If Dudley, on a Sunday, after church, stopped to talk to his neighbours in the churchyard, Ralph the bailiff, with his sister Martha on his arm, was generally to be seen looking at a tombstone, or reading an epitaph, a few paces from his master. But the young farmer was constantly praising his servant’s fidelity and usefulness, and generally wound up his encomiums by declaring that if Ralph were ever to take it into his head to leave the Grey Farm, he should be a ruined man.

  Ralph the bailiff, always appearing at this juncture, would generally say, as he pulled off his hat and tugged at his sleek black hair, “Lord, Muster Dudley, I’ll never leave ‘ee.”

  Ralph, his master said, was very much above his station. He could read and write; and when the other labourers were lolling of a night over the kitchen-fire, smoking their pipes, or pulling the ears of the great sheep-dog, the bailiff would shut himself up in his own room and devote himself to his education. Dudley and Martin had taught him a good deal, when as boys they had lounged together on summer evenings watching the labourers at their work; for Ralph the bailiff had been born on the estate, as well as his sister Martha, Dudley’s housekeeper.

  The new master of the farm had given a little sitting-room in the servants’ wing to Martha and her brother as their own peculiar property, and here of an evening after dark, the two used to sit, she at her needlework, he seated before a great old-fashioned desk that had been his mother’s, writing or reading.

  The brother and sister were much alike, both in person and manners. Both pale and dark, with heavy features, straight, sleek black hair, and deep-set gray eyes; both tall and slim; both grave, reserved, and silent; orderly in their habits; precise in their way of speaking. They were not much liked by the other servants, but they were very much respected, and everyone of the farm-labourers knew that it was wiser to offend Mr. Dudley Carleon than to run the risk of displeasing Ralph the bailiff.

  Actual master of all the men, possessed of unlimited executive power, Ralph Purvis, the bailiff, walked with a steady and a stealthy step, day by day, over the Grey Farm.

  Wherever the owner of the land went, full across his path fell the shadow of his confidential servant; whomsoever he spoke to, or whomsoever he saw, there was Ralph the bailiff to hear his words and to watch his looks.

  As time went by the inhabitants, of Olney began to say that Dudley Carleon had changed month by month, week by week, day by day, and hour by hour, since the September morning on which his elder brother had been buried. He had grown thin and pale, fitful and moody in his manners, reserved and uncertain in his address.

  “His grief for his brother’s death is really absurd,” said the gentlemen.

  “He ought to form a new attachment — and marry,” said the ladies.

  But nothing seemed further from the young farmer’s thoughts than the holy state of matrimony. Secluded in the great stone mansion, he saw very little society of any kind, but sat moodily over his solitary hearth when the weather was bad, or, on fine evenings, strolled listlessly about the farm, talking over the business of the next day with Ralph the bailiff.

  Three years had passed since the funeral of Martin Carleon; and the third September after that on which the drizzling rain had drenched the scarves and hatbands of the mourners, and the thin garments of the village children, drew to a cold and dismal close.

  On the last day of the month, Mr. Theodore Broughton, the only solicitor resident in Olney, dined with Dudley Carleon. He had ridden over to the Grey Farm, to talk about some law-business he had on hand for the young farmer, and Dudley had persuaded him to stop to dinner. The two gentlemen dined at five o’clock, in the oak dining-room — a cold and draughty apartment, which the largest fire that could be piled up in the wide grate could never thoroughly warm. This oak dining-room was lighted, like the drawing-room, by three windows, two of which were situated in the front of the house, opening into the garden, while the third faced the river, and looked straight into the farmyard. There was very little attempt at refinement in the arrangements of this great, dreary, rambling farmhouse; a litter of noisy pigs ran about close under the dining-room window, and three or four huge draught-horses stood pastern deep in wet straw a few paces from where the gentlemen sat at dinner.

  According to the usual custom when there was company at the Grey Farm, Ralph the bailiff made his appearance, wearing an old dress-coat of his master’s, and carrying a napkin over his arm. This apparent attempt at style was so entirely foreign to the ordinary habits of the Carleons, who had always lived in the most unpretending manner, that everybody wondered at and disliked it.

  “That awkward, dark-faced bailiff never came into the house in Martin Carleon’s time,” the visitors at the Grey Farm would say, “and now he’s always sneaking about the premises.”

  This evening of the 30th of S
eptember the bailiff’s presence seemed peculiarly disagreeable to Theodore Broughton, the lawyer. He wished to talk of business, and he disliked doing so while Ralph stood with a listening countenance at his master’s elbow. He suggested to Dudley that they should wait upon themselves, as no doubt the bailiff’s presence was needed about the farm; but neither Ralph’s master nor Ralph himself would take the hint. The young man was evidently embarrassed, and the bailiff held his ground at his master’s elbow with a dogged and determined look in his dark face.

  “The truth of the matter is,” said the lawyer, “that I want to have a few words with you, about that business — and—”

  “O, ah! to be sure. — You hear, Purvis, Mr. Broughton wants a little private conversation with me. Leave us.”

  Ralph the bailiff stood quite still, twisting the dinner-napkin round and round upon his arm, and looking from his master to the visitor, and from the visitor back to his master.

  “You hear,” repeated Dudley Carleon, turning very pale, but with a vivid flash of anger in his large blue eyes; “leave us!”

  “Very well, sir;” and with a stiff bow to his master, Ralph the bailiff left the room. He shut the door after him rather loudly as he went out; but two minutes afterwards Theodore Broughton, who sat opposite to it, saw it reopened by a cautious hand and set a little ajar.

  “You have listeners in this house, Carleon,” said the lawyer, as he rose from the table, and going over to the door, shut it securely. “I don’t like speaking against another man’s servants, but I really can’t help saying that I’ve a great dislike to your bailiff.”

  “What, Ralph Purvis? My dear Broughton, he’s an inestimable fellow. The best bailiff in the county, and faithful to a degree.”

  “Faithful to the degree of officiousness, I think,” muttered the lawyer, shrugging his shoulders; and then, changing the conversation, he discussed with his client the business that had brought him to the farm. After this had been satisfactorily settled, they spoke of indifferent topics, and the lawyer by and by told Dudley of the many speculations made by the feminine inhabitants of Olney as to the causes of his determined bachelorhood. “In short, my dear Carleon,” he said, laughing, “you ought to make an excellent match; and that reminds me of an idea that has often occurred to me, which idea is, that Agnes Marlow, the rector’s daughter, would be the very girl to make you a good wife.”

  Dudley Carleon started as if he had been stung. A cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead, which he wiped with a trembling hand, as he said hesitatingly, “O no, no. Agnes Marlow is the very last person — the very last. Didn’t you know of her engagement to my poor brother Martin?”

  “Yes, I was perfectly aware they were to have been married; that appears to me the very reason why she would be a suitable match for you. It would seem at if you were fulfilling your poor brother’s wish in making her mistress of the Grey Farm.”

  “Agnes Marlow’s heart is buried in Martin Carleon’s grave. Do you know, Broughton, I have a very strong suspicion that her grief for my brother’s death had a fatal effect upon her intellect, and that she — that she has not — been — quite right — in her mind since — that — occurrence.”

  Dudley Carleon said these words slowly, and as if with an effort.

  “What in mercy’s name has given you this idea?”

  “Because she has evinced such an evident dislike to me ever since I have been owner of the property. As if — as if — really — she hated me for being master of the Grey Farm.”

  “Pshaw, my dear Carleon; pure fancy on your part, I am sure.”

  “Be it how it may, Agnes Marlow is the last person I should ever dream of marrying.”

  “As you will. I can’t attempt to choose a wife for you; but what I say, and what everybody else says, is, that you decidedly ought to marry. What a dreary life you must lead in this dismal old house, with not a soul to speak to but that sleek black bailiff of yours, and his equally sleek and black sister, your housekeeper! Only think, man, how the cheerful face of a pretty young wife would brighten the head of this long dining-table!”

  “Well, well; I’ll see about it,” said Dudley, as he and his friend rose from the table. As they were about to leave the room, Mr. Carleon poured out a glass of brandy from a bottle on the sideboard, and drained it at a draught. While he was doing this, Theodore Broughton’s eyes wandered carelessly round the walls of the room, looking at the old pictures. In doing this, his glance happened to rest for a moment on the window opening into the farmyard. It was quite dark, but in the gray obscurity he distinctly saw a pair of gleaming eyes staring in through a pane of glass, and he saw also a coarse red hand, which had lifted the window-sash about three inches from the sill.

  “I told you, Carleon, that you had listeners about the place,” he said, raising his voice so as to be heard by the person without; “look at that window.”

  But when the lawyer and Dudley Carleon reached the window in question, there was nothing to be seen, only in the half-darkness of the farmyard a figure was visible, leading the draught-horses to the stable.

  “I thought so,” said Theodore Broughton; “the listener was your bailiff, Ralph Purvis. I thought I could not be mistaken in the glitter of those eyes. Dudley Carleon, my profession is one which throws me into contact with strange people; it may have made me suspicious; it may have made me only cautious. All I say to you, as your friend and legal adviser, is this — beware of that man!”

  “My dear fellow, I have every respect for your legal acumen, but you are quite wrong. I would trust Ralph Purvis with untold gold.”

  “Trust him with all the mines of California if you like; but do not trust him with your secrete.”

  Dudley Carleon’s face, pale before, suddenly flushed scarlet. “ Good heavens!” said the lawyer, “do you know that I consider the fellow such a listener and a sneak, that did I not see him yonder, out of reach of hearing, leading in those horses, I should expect to turn round and find him at my elbow?”

  “Martha has taken coffee into the drawing-room, sir,” said a voice a few paces behind the two gentlemen.

  Dudley and the lawyer turned sharply round. Ralph the bailiff was standing a little way within the open door at the other end of the room.

  “I was leading the horses in, sir, when I saw you two gentlemen at the window; so I gave them to William to hold, and ran round here to tell you coffee was waiting.”

  When Dudley and his visitor went into the drawing-room they found Martha Purvis busy with the cups and saucers on a little table near the fire. Prim and demure, dressed in sombre gray, and with straight black hair banded tightly under her white cap, she moved about in the fire-lit room as softly as if she had been the ghostly reproduction of one of the dark pictures on the wainscoted wall. Wherever she moved in the flickering light, she threw a shadow on the floor or the walls; and grim and distorted as this shadow always looked wherever it fell, it seemed to Dudley Carleon to have a deeper blackness when it was cast upon him, the master of the Grey Farm.

  The lawyer’s horse was brought round to the front-door as the timepiece in the drawing-room struck eight. Dudley followed his friend out into the garden; Ralph Purvis stood holding the bridle in his hand.

  Theodore Broughton shrugged his shoulders at the sight of the farm-bailiff, but sprang into the saddle without saying a word.

  “I will walk a little way with you, Broughton,” said Dudley, as the lawyer bade him good-night.

  “Shall I come with you to open the gate, sir?” asked the bailiff.

  “No, I can do it myself.”

  It was quite dark, and a thick mist rose from the river by which the two men went, the lawyer walking his horse, and Dudley Carleon holding the rein as he guided the animal along the narrow bank.

  When they had reached the gate which marked the boundary of the farm on the Olney side, the young man bade his friend good-night, and walked slowly homewards.

  A dark figure rose from the shelving river-bank, and
stood by his side.

  “Can I have a word with thee, muster?” asked Ralph the bailiff.

  “You can speak, I suppose?” said Dudley without looking up or evincing the least surprise at his servant’s sudden appearance on the bank.

  “But will ‘ee listen?”

  “Yes,” answered his master, walking slowly on, his head bent down, and his hands in his pockets.

  “And will ‘ee answer what I ask thee?”

  “Perhaps!”

  “Maybe I’d better not speak here; one of the men might be in yon fields, and listen—”

  “True, that might spoil your market.”

  “Where shall I speak, then, Muster Carleon?”

  “In your own room, at the top of the back-stairs. But what can you have to say to me to-night?”

  “Never thee mind what it be, Muster Carleon. Will ‘ee hear it? Yes or no; or shall I go into Olney and say it to yon young lady, that—”

  “Do you want me to throw you into that river?”

  “I’m not afeard, sir,” said Ralph Purvis, with a grin; “it’d make too much noise in the neighbourhood.”

  Dudley Carleon was silent for the rest of the way back to the house. He walked slowly, with his hat slouched over his eyes, looking neither to the right nor the left; the bailiff, keeping a few paces in advance of him, opened the gates as he approached, and fell back respectfully for him to pass. As the owner of the Grey Farm crossed the hall and opened the drawing-room door, he turned round and said to his bailiff, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the domestic servants about the place:

  “Before you go to bed, Purvis, get your accounts ready for me; I’ll come to your room and look them over.”