by Ellen Wood
They had been traveling at a high rate of speed all the way, and had changed horses several times, though it has not been necessary to mark their progress, step by step. Now they were nearing Eastborough; and soon the lights in the town began to be visible. Had it been day, Mrs. Danesbury would have seen her husband’s factory, rising on the opposite hill. It was, however, nearly midnight, a cold, frosty, starlight night. A steep hill descended to the hollow, and at the top of the hill was the turnpike gate.
The gate was closed. The post-boy stopped his horses and hallooed; and the door opened, and the keeper came out Mrs. Danesbury, who was on that side, leaned forward.
“Do you happen to know, Giles, whether the child is saved?”
She received no answer. The man had gone forward, with a stumble, to open the gate; Mrs. Danesbury supposed he had tripped over a stone. He opened the gate; he did not fling it back, but kept it in his hand, and went stumbling across the road with it. The post-boy urged on his horses; but Giles somehow loosed his hold of the gate, and, though he went on himself, he let the gate swing to again. It struck the nearest horse.
The horse, a nasty-tempered animal at all times, as the post-boy phrased it afterward, began to plunge and kick; that startled his fellow, and, in spite of the efforts of the post-boy, they sprang forward, and dashed madly down the hill. Mrs. Danesbury shrieked, and rose up.
“Ma’am, ma’am, don’t get up, don’t lean out!” implored Thomas Harding; “be still, for the love of life! Lie you down at the bottom of the chaise.”
“This is certain death,” she wailed. “They will inevitably dash against the bridge; and it will be certain death. Oh, my children! My Saviour, I can but commend them to Thee! Do Thou make them Thine, and keep them from the evil!”
Had it been his own wife, or one with whom he could put himself upon an equality, Thomas Harding would have forced her to the bottom of the chaise and held her there. But he did not like to act so to Mrs. Danesbury. She had leaned from the side window as she spoke the last words, probably not knowing that she did so, in her agitation and terror, and certainly not aware that they were already at the foot of the hill. But they had, as it were, flown down it; the chaise, in that same moment, struck against the lower stone abutment of the narrow, awkward bridge (which every body in Eastborough had long said was a disgrace and a danger to the town, but which none had bestirred themselves to have altered), and the chaise was overturned. Mrs. Danesbury’s head fell on the ground, and the chaise settled upon it.
How Thomas Harding extricated himself he never knew.
Beyond being shaken and a little bruised, he was not hurt. The terrified horses had struggled and plunged till they freed themselves, and started off with part of the broken shafts dangling after them. The post-boy was lying without motion.
Thomas Harding saw at a glance the dreadful situation of Mrs. Danesbury. To raise the chaise, or to aid her of himself, he was entirely powerless. At that moment, the church clock struck out twelve, and the door of a public-house, the Pig and Whistle, beyond the bridge, at the entrance of the town, was thrown open, and a stream of warm light and a crowd of topers came forth into the street together.
“Hilloa! help! hilloa!” shouted Thomas Harding, running toward them; “help here.”
The group, most of whom were employed at the Danesbury Works, halted at the noise, and peered in the direction it came. They had left a room blazing with lights and fire, and could as yet distinguish no object outside. The landlord followed with a candle; perhaps believing it would render objects more distinct.
“Blest, if it ain’t Harding!” exclaimed one. “What’s the matter, sir?” he cried, as his foreman came panting up.
Mr. Harding explained, as well as he was able for his haste and agitation. Some were capable of rendering assistance, some were not; those who were, flew with one accord to the fatal spot — the landlord still carrying the flaring candle, which soon flared out.
“I telled ye I heer’d somm’at like horses a galloping past, with shafts a’ter ‘em,” cried one of the men; “but ye was in such haste to abuse the landlord, for saying it were twelve, that ye could not heed me.”
Between them they raised the chaise, and extricated Mrs. Danesbury. She lay motionless. Harding, shocked and bewildered, and hardly knowing how to act, sped off through the town to Mr. Danesbury’s, while others ran for the surgeon, who was not found at home, but at Danesbury House. The post-boy had gathered himself up, and was sitting with his back against the side of the bridge. They gently raised him, and walked him about a few steps. No limbs were broken. He shook himself, and speech came to him.
“That there Giles ought to swing for this,” were the first words that broke from him.
“What had Giles to do with it?” questioned the chorus of voices.
“He were as drunk as blazes. I saw he were, when he came ducking, head over heels, to open the gate. He were so drunk he couldn’t push it back, nor hold it back, and he let it come swing agen the horses.”
“Did that start ’em off!”
“It just did start ’em off: I never strode such terrified, furious brutes afore. They took, as you may say, one leap from the top of the hill to the bottom, not a bit longer it didn’t seem, and the chaise caught the nasty awk’ard bridge, and we went over.”
‘‘I tell you all what,” cried the landlord; “something’ll be done now. The town has called out long enough about the danger of keeping such a bridge; and some folks have called out about Giles’s drunkenness. It’ll both be remedied now; you’ll see.”
“Who’ll give me a arm up the hill?” cried the post-boy, who was a native of Eastborough, and had driven out with Mr. Harding that afternoon with these very horses. “I doubt if I ain’t too shaky to get up it of myself. I’ll go and have a word with Giles.”
Two of them immediately took the post-boy in tow, and they began to ascend the hill. The rest remained to keep watch over the unfortunate lady.
“Jim,” cried out the landlord, “what about the horses? Where be they flown to?”
“‘Taint much matter where,” was the post-boy’s answer; “they have done mischief enough. They be off to their stables, no doubt, they be, the cantankerous brutes.”
Arrived at the turnpike, they tried the house door. It was locked; but they shook it, and kicked, and shouted till Roger Giles came and opened it; very nearly pitching forward into their arms with the exertion.
“A nice state you be in!” uttered the post-boy, “a sweet gentleman you be, to keep a pike! Do you know the damage you have gone and done?”
“Eh?” enunciated Giles. He was stupidly drunk, and his eye wandered uneasily to the spot where he kept his employers’ cash; some vague idea hammering at his brain, that the three men, now entered, might have designs upon it.
“We won’t go on at him now,” said the post-boy to his friends; “ ‘taint of no good. Look at the sot! But you’ll both please to bear me out to my master as to his state, so that I don’t get the blame.”
“This will be a bad job for you, Giles,” cried one of the men. ‘‘You have took a drop once too much, my boy. Any way it will be bad, but if Mrs. Danesbury shouldn’t be got to again (and she don’t look like it), I should be sorry to stand in your shoes.”
They descended the hill again, and the post-boy sank down as before, with his back resting against the bridge. His exertion had made him feel dizzy. Soon voices and rapid footsteps were heard, for several people were approaching. Foremost of them came Mr. Pratt the surgeon, Thomas Warding, and Mr. Danesbury. Those keeping guard drew respectfully back, and touched their hats, even in the dark night, to Mr. Danesbury. They had brought means for a light with them, which bad been thought of by Thomas Harding, and the surgeon held it to the face of Mrs. Danesbury.
‘‘She haven’t stirred, nor even moaned, sir,” said the landlord of the Pig and Whistle, who, with the others, had collected close up.
“A moment, if you please,” cried out the surgeon,
authoritatively. “Stand back, all of you: I can do and see nothing, with you crowding round Mr. Danesbury, will you also allow me a moment here alone? Harding, you stay and hold the torch.”
Poor Mr. Pratt! He saw that Mrs. Danesbury was dead, and had so spoken to gain time for composure, and that Mr. Danesbury might not see, unprepared, that ghastly face, which told too plainly its own tale.
All had stepped back in compliance with his wishes. Mr. Danesbury’s eyes fell on the post-boy. “Are you hurt, Jim?” he asked, kindly.
“A bit shook, sir; I don’t think its no worse. I hope it won’t be no worse with nobody else, sir,” he added, nodding toward where the surgeon was stooping.
“How did it happen? Mr. Harding says the gate touched the horses.”
Come swinging right agen ‘em, sir; Giles were so drunk he couldn’t hold it back.”
“Drunk, was he!” quickly cried Mr. Danesbury.
“He were beastly drunk, sir. I have been up there to him now, some of ’em here helped me, and he can’t speak, nor stand straight”
Mr. Pratt had arisen, and was at Mr. Danesbury’s elbow. He passed his arm within that gentleman’s, and drew him away from the crowd; halting at a certain part of the bridge, and apparently looking out, over the dark and gloomy water.
“What is it?” said Mr. Danesbury; “why do you bring me here? Have you ascertained the nature of the injury?”
“Oh, my dear friend!” cried the surgeon, “I know not how to tell you what I must tell.”
Mr. Danesbury’s heart sank within him: a shadow of appalling woe stole over him. But he did not speak. Perhaps he could not.
“I fear — I fear she is gone,” added Mr. Pratt.
Then Mr. Danesbury clutched the surgeon’s arm with a tight nervous grasp. “The truth” — he breathed— “the truth. Let me know the worst. I can bear it better than this agony of dread.”
“One consolation is, that she did not suffer. She must have died instantaneously. Her neck is broken.”
Mr. Danesbury let fall the surgeon’s arm. He half fell, half rested on the parapet of the bridge, and a low wail of utter anguish went forth on the night air.
CHAPTER III.
THE DESOLATE HOUSE.
The coroner’s inquest was held on the appointed day. Thomas Harding could only depose that the gate touched the horse on his side of the chaise: he had not observed the state of the gate-keeper. But the post-boy, and the men who had subsequently accompanied him to the gate-house, testified that Giles was incapably drunk. The verdict returned was, “Manslaughter against Roger Giles; he having been, at the time of its act, in a state of drunkenness.”
He was committed to prison to await his trial. The little child, William Danesbury, had recovered the effects of the laudanum, the remedies administered by the surgeon having proved successful.
Eastborough, insignificant in itself, owed what importance it did possess to its being the scene of the Danesbury Works, sometimes called the Danesbury Factory, sometimes the Iron Works. It was a concern of considerable magnitude, giving employment, in its various departments, to a large number of hands. Engineers, iron-founders, manufacturers of agricultural and divers implements, combined with other branches of trade, not essential to mention, necessarily rendered the Danesburys of a high standing in the commercial world. Not only for the extent of their operations, did they bear a wide renown, but for the lofty excellence of their character, both in business matters and in private life. Just, honourable, and upright, the name of Danesbury was respected all the country round. The business had once been of small account, but the then proprietor of it, John Danesbury, raised it, by his diligence and intelligence, into importance. As his two sons, John and Philip, severally attained the age of twenty-one, they were taken into partnership with him, the firm then being altered to that of “John Danesbury and Sons.” The elder of those sons, John, was the one introduced to the reader. He was now the sole proprietor, for his father and brother had both died; the latter, Philip, a young man, leaving a widow. But the appellation of the firm had not been changed: it was still known as that of “John Danesbury and Sons:” possibly Mr. Danesbury looked forward to the period when it should be so in actuality. He had married a Miss St. George, a lady every way worthy of him, and whose present dreadful death was a far more agonizing shock to him than the world suspected. Their two eldest children, Arthur and Isabel, lived and flourished, two succeeding ones had died infants, and the last had just escaped following them, as you have seen, through nurse Glisson’s dose of opium.
Thomas Harding was exceedingly attached to Mr. Danesbury, and with cause. He had served his father, he now served him, and enjoyed his full confidence. There were superior clerks, as to position, in the factory, gentlemen overlookers, but they held a secondary place to Thomas Harding in the estimation of Mr. Danesbury. It was the respect due to worth, deserved and paid to an honest, guileless man. Harding was vexed at being the depositary of this secret about Glisson; but he hoped the tragical end of her mistress, caused remotely through her might so tell upon her that there would no longer exist reason to betray her to Mr. Danesbury.
“Glisson took on dreadfully,” said Jessy, one day that she was at the Harding’s’ house, about ten days subsequently to the funeral. “I was so shocked that night, when they brought the dead body into the house, that I hardly knew what I said, and did not spare her. I told her, if she had kept herself in her right senses, and given the baby the proper medicine, our poor mistress would have been alive and safe.”
“What did she say?”
“I can not tell half she said. She was like a mad woman, lying on the floor, crying out for her mistress, moaning, and wishing she had died for her. Master heard her in his room, and came in; but he thought it was all self-reproach for her mistake in having given the wrong medicine; he did not suspect she had any thing worse to reproach her-self with.”
“Was she sober, then?”
“I should just think she was! The poisoning of the child in the afternoon had sobered her, and she had taken nothing subsequently. I do not believe she has yet. I have never noticed it, and she grieves after her mistress night and day.”
“Then it has, perhaps, been such a warning to her that she’ll abandon the habit altogether,” returned Thomas Harding. “Jessy, girl, never suffer a word to escape you of what has been: give her a chance of redeeming herself. It is what Mrs. Danesbury would have done, had she lived: mind you, I know that.”
“She’s safe for me,” replied Jessy. “The children are coming home to-morrow,” she continued. “Some lady is bringing them, and we fancy she is going to remain — as governess, or housekeeper, or something of that. Master came to the nursery this morning and told us that a cousin of our late mistress’s would accompany the children, and the house was to take its orders from her. Glisson is uncommonly put out about it: she says those half-and-half mistresses are always more difficult to please than real ones.”
“Jessy! take care to do your duty, and don’t be so fond of repeating things after Mrs. Glisson,” rebuked her aunt Harding.
Danesbury House was a handsome white mansion, surrounded by fine grounds, with a smooth lawn sloping from the front; its elevated site causing it to command extensive and beautiful views of the neighbouring country.
On the morning that was to witness the return of the children, a lady approached the house, ascended the stone steps to the pillared portico, and entered a spacious hall, on either side of which were the reception chambers. It was Mrs. Philip Danesbury, the widow of Mr. Danesbury’s brother. She enjoyed a handsome income from the business, and resided near; a talkative, pleasant woman, young still, possessed of good sense, and of keen penetration. She was in Yorkshire, her native place, when the recent fatal event happened, and had now been home a day or two. Mr. Danesbury had seen her the previous day, and her present visit was to Glisson and the baby. While she was in the nursery talking, she observed her brother-in-law approaching from the factory, and
went down stairs to meet him.
“John,” she began, as soon as they were in the sitting-room, dashing at once into some news she had just heard, and “Glisson says there’s a lady coming here, to be in Isabel’s place”.
“Not in Isabel’s place,” interrupted Mr. Danesbury, in a tone of pain. “No one can fill that. Do not say so.”
“Well, you know what I meant, John. Unfortunately no one ever can fill it, in any sense of the word. She was worth more than many of us who are left. Poor, poor Isabel!”
Mr. Danesbury sat silent, his countenance betraying a shade more of its deep sorrow. He was not a demonstrative man, and he buried his grief within him.
“But there is somebody coming to rule the household and manage the children,” proceeded Mrs. Philip Danesbury. “Who is it?”
“Miss St George, Mrs. Serle’s sister. She has offered to remain here a little while.”
“A ‘little while!’ That means an indefinite period I suppose.”
“No time was mentioned. It was Mrs. Serle who wrote and proposed it. I thought it exceedingly kind and considerate of her, and accepted it gratefully.”
“But what ever made you accept it, all in such a hurry?” continued Mrs. Philip, in her hasty way.
“I accepted it for the children’s sake. Who is to overlook them? Glisson can take care of William, but Arthur and Isabel should not be left to the entire companionship of servants.”
“The better plan would have been — John,” she broke off, “I had been turning things over in my mind, before I knew of this Miss St. George scheme. I think Arthur should be placed at school, and I will take charge of Isabel.”
“You are very kind, Maria,” he sadly answered. “But the house, deprived of the two children, would be more desolate than with them. What objection do you see to Miss St. George staying here — for I think I detect that you have an objection?”