by Joan Aiken
Ellen, who was present during this interview, studied the housekeeper with keen attention, and could not avoid the conclusion that she was a little disappointed by this favorable verdict. When she first ran into the study and saw her employer prostrate in his chair, Ellen could have sworn that there had been a momentary flash of satisfaction on her face. Was it vindictive pleasure at sight of such a shocking breach between father and daughter? But surely she would hardly take the feeling so far as to hope that Luke would die, thus leaving her out of employment?
* * *
During the first few weeks of her father’s illness, Ellen was excluded severely from the sickroom.
“Visit your father? When you were the cause of his affliction? I should think not, indeed! The mere sight of you might be enough to give him another turn!” said Mrs. Pike in righteous outrage.
Ellen did not press the matter. Her father’s action in burning her book had filled her with such a passion of indignation and disgust that, so long as he continued to progress favorably, which Dr. Smollett assured her was the case, she preferred to keep out of his presence. Finding the doctor intelligent and sympathetic, she had made no secret about the dispute which had brought on Luke’s attack, and Smollett had agreed on the wisdom of not reviving the memory by presenting herself at her father’s bedside.
“Quick-tempered kind of man your pa—ain’t he?” said the doctor. “No sense in stirring up trouble.” But after a few weeks he changed his opinion. “It’s my belief, Miss Ellen, that he don’t remember a thing about what caused his attack. In fact he has asked me several times—rather pitifully, under that gruff manner—why you never come to see him.”
“Has he indeed? Mrs. Pike never told me that.”
During the period of Luke’s illness, Ellen had had time to master her first feelings of resentment and bitterness. Nothing would assuage her disappointment at the loss of her book, but, in the absence of her father from the domestic scene (and it was remarkable how much more agreeable the household became while he was confined to his bed), there had been leisure to reflect that this was just the kind of difficulty which her mother had asked her to bear with patience. How many such indignities and disappointments must not Mattie have suffered! While still keenly resenting the injustice of her treatment, Ellen was prepared to give her father another chance. In a way, it was exasperating that he had so conveniently forgotten the matter, and would not even be aware of her tolerance; but, on the other hand, this blank in his memory made him seem pitiable, vulnerable, at a disadvantage. Furthermore, she needed to allay the agitations of Kitty and Eugenia, who wrote by every post demanding news of poor Papa’s progress. Fortunately Eugenia was confined to Valdoe Court by measles among her children, or she would certainly have visited the Hermitage before now, and been presented with Mrs. Pike’s version of the affair. As it was, Ellen had merely written to inform her sisters that Papa had suffered a slight seizure, from which he was recovering satisfactorily.
“I will certainly go and see my father if he wishes it,” she told the doctor.
In order to avoid a clash that might be upsetting to the invalid, she picked a moment when Mrs. Pike was out of doors, arguing with Moon the gardener, and then made her way to Luke’s bedside.
He did look rather pitiful, she was bound to admit, lying propped upright against heaped pillows, his long bony face even paler than usual, the cavernous eye sockets deeper, the eyes fixed in a melancholy, absent stare, the massive hands lying idle on the coverlet.
“Papa? Dr. Smollett said you had expressed a wish to see me.”
“Ah, there you are, child! Yes—I believe you have been away on a visit? I, too, have been away—I am not quite sure where,” he confided. “But I am very glad to be back, and soon I shall be resuming my literary labors. In the meantime, Ellen, I shall be obliged if you will read to me for an hour or two. I find the effort is too much if I have to hold the volume myself.”
“Certainly, Papa, I shall be glad to. What shall I read?”
“Oh, whatever you wish. I have no particular preference.”
Ellen reflected with some irony that now would have been an excellent time to read to him from Professor Bosschère’s Discours. Lacking that, she read him a few items from the local paper, an essay from the Gentleman’s Magazine, which lay on his bedside table, and an article from the Morning Post, which was delivered daily by coach, on the likelihood of the North American Federal Union erecting a tariff wall which would block British trade.
“It is a bad business—a bad business,” muttered Luke. “Palmerston favors the Southern side—but if it should come to an armed conflict, I fancy that the Northern states, with their greater population and more extensive industry, would in the end prove victorious.”
“Their cause is just, Papa. Slavery is odious.”
“Do not attempt to discuss subjects which are outside of your sphere, child.”
Ellen bit her tongue and remained silent. Yet after a moment he continued in a musing tone, “I cannot but be of your opinion, however. No human should be utterly at the disposition of another. John Stuart Mill expresses this admirably in an essay I have been reading; he says, ‘Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves than by compelling each other to live as seems good to the rest.’” And Luke heaved a long, sad sigh; on his face was a look of unappeasable regret. Ellen could not help wondering if he thought of her mother. After a moment she said in a gentle tone, “Are you weary, Papa? Shall I leave you?”
“I am a little weary—but do not leave me for a moment. How-how do Vicky’s lessons proceed? Does she apply herself? Is she studious—docile?”
“She is biddable enough. She will never be my star pupil,” said Ellen, smiling, “save in her talent for portraiture. She must have that from Lady Adelaide—I do not recall any artist in this family?”
Luke sighed again and shook his head. But after a moment his expression became lighter as he asked, “And Gerard? How does he go on? The boy pays me such brief visits—two hasty words and he is gone. Does he seem to be working hard?”
Ellen said truthfully that Gerard spent many hours a day with his tutor and law books.
“That is good—that is as it should be. He will write the name of Paget on the page of history.”
Poor Papa, thought Ellen. How he deludes himself. Unless, indeed, Gerard becomes a famous composer of music.
“But the Doom Stone,” Luke went on. “Is there no word of its discovery? I wish you will write a note to the Bishop, child, asking if it has not yet come to light.”
“I am sure, Papa, that the Bishop would have informed you if it had.”
“It might have escaped his memory. He is a busy man. I wish you will write, my dear.”
“Very well, Papa.”
Mrs. Pike suddenly appeared in the doorway. She looked extremely discomposed; the red spot burned on either cheek and there was an angry spark in her eye.
“Miss Paget! I did not give you leave to enter the sickroom.”
“My daughter does not require your permission to visit her father, ma’am,” said Luke magisterially. “Your consideration outruns the bounds of your duty. I sent for Ellen to read to me.”
“And I can see that she has stayed too long and tired you,” snapped the housekeeper. “I could have read to you, Mr. Paget, if you had asked me!”
“You are too occupied with your manifold duties. And,” said Mr. Paget clinchingly, “your voice is too loud.”
Mrs. Pike reddened with annoyance. “Well, it is time you rested now.”
“I was just going,” said Ellen, and moved toward the door. But her father halted her. “Perhaps, child, you would care to peruse this essay on Liberty, by Mr. Mill; I fancy you would find it of interest.”
“Why, thank you, Papa! I shall like to read it.”
She took the pamphlet and
escaped, followed by Mrs. Pike’s malevolent stare.
* * *
Mr. Newman, Gerard’s tutor, was to be away for the month of August, attending a Church Convocation and visiting relatives in his native town of York. It had been arranged by Mr. Paget, some time before he had his seizure, that, during the tutor’s absence, Gerard should read law with a retired judge in Chichester, staying with his sister Eugenia for the purpose. Since Luke was now progressing so favorably, it was not thought necessary to cancel the arrangement; Gerard packed up and dispatched books and clothes by the carrier, and himself rode over the Downs on his horse Captain. From his holiday air of joyful liberation, Ellen guessed that he planned many visits to his friend Matt Bilbo; she could not blame him, but she sighed a little, reflecting what trouble this would cause for Eustace and Eugenia should Luke come to hear of it, and wondering what effect it might have on Gerard himself; still, perhaps a month’s unfettered association with his friend might divest the relationship of its mesmeric fascination, so that, on his return to Petworth, he might be content to let it dwindle away.
Luke missed his son; but the knowledge that the boy was in Chichester, reading with Sir Magnus Orde, was, in a way, more satisfactory to him than Gerard’s actual presence, since the intercourse between father and son was generally so strained and perfunctory.
* * *
It had become an accepted practice for Ellen to spend a couple of hours a day by her father’s bedside, reading him news from the paper, essays from The Spectator, or extracts from volumes relating to his historical research. Mrs. Pike glowered and fulminated, and was quick to object that her patient was becoming tired, but she had no power to forbid the sessions.
A cold and windy July had now given way to a chill and rainy August; Dr. Smollett allowed Mr. Paget up for an hour or so a day and said that he might sit outside if weather permitted; but so far it did not permit. Ellen, however, sometimes read to her father in the garden room, and there, occasionally, Vicky was permitted to come and play quietly (which, to her, meant drawing) while the reading sessions took place. Mrs. Pike expressed strong disapproval, but Ellen felt that if the child were not allowed to see her father even thus briefly, the pair would become utter strangers to one another.
Vicky was there one rainy afternoon when Ellen read aloud the sad case of the Unknown Female Vagrant.
“A female Pauper, of age probably approaching twenty-three or four, was discovered by the constables lying out in Pikeshoot Copse with her infant child. She appeared emaciated and very sick, and would answer no questions as to her name, age, Parish of origin, etc., etc. Having no claim on the Parish of Petworth, they at first thought to lodge her in the Jail, but the overseers of the Poorhouse at last permitted her to be admitted there and stay for the period of one night, it being hoped she would then divulge the name of her own Parish so that she might be conveyed there. But during the night, having remained resolutely silent, she died, it is thought by the Parish Medical officer, of inanition, for the weather was tolerably mild, though it is true the woman’s garments, which were scanty and worn, had been wet through by recent heavy rains. Her funeral will be a charge on the Parish of Petworth, unless any person can identify her. Her infant, also ailing and emaciated, is not expected to survive her many days. A drawing of this poor Unfortunate is appended, in case any of our Readers can throw light on the mystery of her identity.”
A sketch of a piteously thin, hollow-cheeked face appeared below the paragraph. Ellen was certain she had never seen the girl, but Vicky, coming to lean against her sister’s knee and study the paper, said at once, “Why, that is the beggar woman who came to the back door one day while Papa was in bed. I was in the apple tree and saw her.”
“You should not climb trees, Vicky,” said her father.
“Are you sure, Vicky?” asked Ellen.
“Why yes, I remember her face very well, for I did a drawing of her—wait, and I will show you.” Vicky riffled through her well-used notebook and found a picture in the corner of a crowded page, which showed recognizably the same girl. She held a baby in her arms, and her expression was desperate and beseeching.
“Yes, that is undoubtedly the same girl. Poor thing! I wish I had known, I would have given her some money—or perhaps helped her to find employment.”
“Mrs. Pike came and talked to her and gave her something,” replied Vicky. “Mrs. Pike was very angry, though, and told her to go away and never show her face again, or she would have her whipped by the constables.”
“Did she indeed?” muttered Ellen.
Mr. Paget remarked, “Mrs. Pike is zealous to protect this household from mendicants and vagrants. Perhaps she sometimes exceeds her warrant, but her intention is for the best.”
Ellen strongly doubted this. She wondered if the wretched beggar could be the same girl whom she had seen talking to Mrs. Pike by the track to Frog Hole Farm. Might she have been some poor relative, some connection whom the housekeeper was refusing to acknowledge? But all this was mere supposition.
Mrs. Pike, bustling in with a cup of coffee for Mr. Paget, put an end to the conversation, announcing that the patient was fatigued and must return to his chamber.
“Did you know this poor girl, Mrs. Pike?” inquired Ellen, holding up the paper.
The housekeeper answered composedly enough. “Is that the pauper who died up at the workhouse? It is a shame that such creatures should wander about the countryside, frightening honest folk at their own doors. Yes, she did come here, but I soon sent her about her business.”
It was evident that she had already seen the story in the paper. But her color was somewhat higher than usual, and her hands shook slightly as she received the coffee cup from her employer.
You sent that girl away to her death, thought Ellen.
* * *
Two weeks later, as Ellen, having taken advantage of an unusually fine afternoon to visit a superannuated gardener who lived at Osiers Cottages, some two miles north of the town, was returning on her pony through Petworth Park, she heard herself hailed by a voice which was so familiar, and so wholly out of her present context, that for a moment she felt completely at sea. She had been riding with a loose rein, in a mood of mild and recollected melancholy, for the man from whose house she came, a retired family servant, had been very devoted to her mother, and the afternoon had been largely spent in reminiscence. Now, to be hailed so unexpectedly: “Darling Miss Paget! It is you! Only imagine the luck of encountering you here!” brought her abruptly out of her reverie.
At first the tiny, blond, exquisitely coiffed, hatted, gloved, and habited equestrienne on the big bay horse seemed a stranger; then she realized that it was Charlotte Morningquest, her external appearance sleeked and groomed into adulthood, but her bubbling, breathless loquacity unchanged since the days in the rue St. Pierre.
“How wonderful!” Charlotte was exclaiming. “Of course I wished to come and call on you directly, but they told me at Petworth House that your father had been dreadfully ill, and I hesitated to intrude; but, oh, I have been bursting to tell you about all the goings-on at Madame’s Pensionnat!”
“Goings-on?” Ellen was startled. “What can you possibly mean, my dear Charlotte?” Then, turning to Charlotte’s silent companion, equally splendidly mounted on a glossy black hunter, who was holding himself somewhat withdrawn from the two females, she added, with formality, “How do you do, Mr. Masham?”
“How do you do, Miss Paget?” he replied, as coldly. “Miss Charlotte, I am sure that you two ladies must have many private matters to discuss, and I am persuaded that no harm can befall you in this park, so I will leave you to your conversation,” and he was about to set spurs to the black horse when Charlotte detained him, crying imperiously, “No, no, don’t go, Benedict, for I shall need you to pick me some rose hips, and to open the gates, and for a dozen other things—you must not leave us! Now, dear Miss Paget, tell me how you go on?
Was it very sad for you, returning to England? Is your papa very ill? Shall you ever be able to come up to London? Aunt Massingham is giving a ball for me in Berkeley Square in the autumn—could you not come to it? You must be weary of ruralizing!”
Ellen smiled and said she was not at all weary of country life, and saw little prospect of being able to come to London for Lady Massingham’s ball. “But tell me about your mother. How is she? And your brother Tom? I hope that Lady Morningquest has a little recovered from her grief at your cousin’s death.”
“Oh, cousin Louise? She was a dismally hopeless girl,” said Charlotte dismissively. “Always mooning about with her head in a book, when we were children, and then considering herself put upon and abused because she was not popular. For my part, I felt sorry for her husband—poor Raoul! And he was so handsome, too!”
Ellen kept her eyes rigidly on her pony’s neck; six paces away she could feel Benedict, grimly intent on some object in the middle distance. Neither of the pair looked at the other, but they were as mutually aware as two cats stalking a garden boundary.
Charlotte went on blithely, “But that wasn’t what I had to tell you. Only imagine! Madame Bosschère is in shocking disgrace, and Professor Patrice too—the scandal has all come out, and it is almost certain that Madame will be obliged to close the school. What a good thing you left when you did, dear Miss Paget, or you might have been involved too, and, as Mama said, it is bad enough being mixed up—”
She stopped, her cheeks suddenly turning a bright pink.
“Bad enough to be mixed up in one scandal, let alone two!” Ellen finished calmly.
“Well—yes! Not that any of it was your fault! Indeed,” said Charlotte naively, “nobody looking at you would consider you a femme fatale, Miss Paget, and yet that is almost the role that has been thrust upon you in each of these two affairs!”
“What utter nonsense you talk, my dear Charlotte,” said Ellen with a slightly heightened color, and still keeping her eyes resolutely away from Benedict. “But what is all this about Madame Bosschère and the Professor? Pray do not keep me in suspense.”