by Ellen Wood
“You have; I give you credit for it I never doubted you until we came here, and you renewed your intimacy and friendship with your old lover.”
“He was no lover of mine,” she replied, disdaining not to use evasion in such a case. “Were you not both before me in those old days, you and he, and I chose you? Which was the most favoured?”
“Janson,” coolly repeated Mr. Yorke.
“He was not. You speak in the face of facts, Arthur. I married you.”
“Loving him. But I was rich, and he was poor. Do you remember your last parting with him, the evening he returned from that absurd voyage, where I wish he had been wrecked?”
“What parting?” rejoined Maria; but her cheeks burned and her voice faltered.
“What parting! Shall I repeat it, though you know every word better than I? Ay, you do! When you told him, with tears and wails and sobs, that you were miserable, for you had bound yourself to marry me, and you loved him: when you lay passively in his arms, and welcomed his embrace, with a welcome you had never given to mine! I speak of that parting. I witnessed it.”
Maria breathed hurriedly. She could not speak. “You did not deceive me, Maria, though you thought you did, for I buried my injuries within me. Had I not loved you so passionately, I should have left you to him: and I knew that you pronounced your marriage vows to me with Janson’s kisses not cold upon your lips.”
She raised her head as if to speak, but no words came.
“It was not a pleasant knowledge for me, your bridegroom; but I never visited it upon you. You are aware I never did, Maria; my love for you was too great. I have loved you,” he added, his tone changing to softness, “with a love passing that of man. I was forbearing, and never visited it upon you, save by deeper and deeper tenderness: I forced myself to think of it as a piece of girlish folly, and I was beginning to forget it: I had nearly forgotten it, Maria, when we came here.”
“And so had I forgotten it,” she spoke up, abruptly; “forgotten Janson, and all connected with him. I lived but for my children, for you, for my own natural ties and interests, and I never shall live for anything else. Janson! what is he to me now? For shame, Mr. Yorke! I am an English gentlewoman; your wife, and your children’s mother.”
“We have been here a month — more. Not a day, from the first afternoon we came, but he has been here, in your society. Sometimes twice a day.”
“Could I help that? Circumstances have compelled it. The child cannot be left without medical attendance. You are frequently at home when Mr. Janson comes, and you know that his visits are limited to the child.
He rarely accepts the offer of sitting down with us, even for a minute, whether you are here, or whether you are away.”
“And this night! for you to have walked home with him in the moonlight, resting on his arm; you and he, of all people in the world! And I following on your steps later, picturing what that walk had been to you both, in my jealous torment! Maria, I was mad this night as I came along, if ever man was; and Janson may be thankful that I did not meet him, for I might have sprung upon him in my anger.”
“For shame, Arthur! again I say it,” she reiterated, indignation rendering her speech firm. “I have never forgotten, by word or look, my own self-respect, since this our meeting with Mr. Janson. Neither has he. I have been to him as your wife, as my children’s mother, secure in my position; and he has been to me, as to you, the plain family attendant. Do you doubt me still? Will you have me swear to it? I can. Arthur, Arthur! I think you art mad. Let us leave this place if your mania is to continue, and go where we can have other medical advice.”
Was Mr. Yorke mad? He was certainly unhinged. He fell into a storm of sobs and tears, and clasping his wife to him, reiterated how passionately he loved her.
Maria grew alarmed. She had never seen him like this. Resentment for his groundless suspicions would have prompted her to turn scornfully from him: but she did not dare. She only repeated, in as conciliatory a tone as she could bring her angry mind to allow, that she had no unworthy thought connected with Mr. Janson. And she spoke truth.
He seemed to believe her. He did believe her. A better spirit came over him; and in the morning, when Mr. Janson paid his visit to the child, Mr. Yorke spoke cordially to him, and offered him his hand, a mark of favour he had never condescended to vouchsafe before.
But who can put away at will the pangs of jealousy? There is not an earthly passion that is less under control. As the days went on, it returned in full force to the unhappy Mr. Yorke, throwing its own jaundice over his sight and hearing. The most innocent movement of his wife or Mr. Janson, wore to him but one interpretation; the common courtesy of hand-shaking would excite him almost past repression. He said nothing more to his wife: he watched; and though he saw no tangible thing that even jealousy could take hold of, he grew only the more convinced that they were playing a part to deceive and blind him. If you ever felt the absurd passion of jealousy in its extreme force, you will understand and recognise Mr. Yorke’s self-torments. They really did border on insanity.
CHAPTER XI.
Lost in the Fog.
THE child grew better; he was getting well; and Mr. Janson’s visits were now paid but occasionally. At length the day came that he took leave. His task was done, he good-humouredly observed, for Master Leo was upon his legs again. Mrs. Yorke mentioned this to her husband in the evening, as an indifferent topic of conversation; glad, no doubt, for the sake of peace, to be able to do it.
“Left for good, has he?” repeated Mr. Yorke.
“Yes. I requested him to send in his account.”
This was on a Monday. The next day, Tuesday, Mr. Yorke went out for a whole day’s shooting, a thing he had not yet done. True, he had gone out shooting several times since the season came in, but only by fits and starts. Out for an hour or two, and back home again; out again for another hour, and back again. Maria understood it all, and thoroughly despised him in her indignant heart. But on Tuesday he went out in the morning, and came home at night, just in time for dinner. He was in good spirits, talked pleasantly with his wife, and played with Leopold. Wednesday was spent in precisely the same way, and on Thursday he also went out with his gun as soon as breakfast was over. On this day a Miss Hardisty, a relative of Mrs. Yorke’s, arrived on a visit: somewhat unexpectedly, for they had not looked for her for a day or two. A hard-featured maiden she, of some five-and-forty years.
The afternoon of Thursday turned out wretchedly. It did not rain, but a dense fog, or sort of Scotch mist, overhung the atmosphere. Offord could remember nothing like it. Twilight set in, and Mrs. Yorke stirred her good fire into a roaring blaze, and wondered where her husband was. Her guest, fatigued with her railway journey, was in her chamber, lying down, and had requested not to be called until tea-time.
“Oh, here he is,” cried Maria, as an indistinct form passed the window. “I wonder how many he has bagged? He will be surprised to hear that Olivia is come.”
“Mr. Janson,” said a servant, opening the door.
Mr. Janson entered. And as he took his seat, inquired after Leopold.
“He remains quite well,” replied Mrs. Yorke. “I thought I understood you, last Monday, that you should not come again to him,” she added, feeling uncomfortable lest her husband should return home and find him there — after her having stated that his attendance had ceased.
“This is not a professional visit,” said Mr. Janson. “I have been to see Lady Rich, and thought I would call in as I passed your house to say, ‘How d’ye do?’ and hear that Leopold continued all right What a strange fog it is!”
“Thank you,” answered Mrs. Yorke, in a rather constrained manner. For when jealous’ suspicions, entirely unfounded, are entertained by a husband, they must and do make the manners of the best of women constrained and embarrassed.
Mr. Janson drew his chair near to Mrs. Yorke’s; not to be nearer her, but to enjoy the genial blaze of the fire. Unfortunately he had no idea of Mr. Yorke’s fear
s; he only thought him an abrupt, haughty, uncertain man, different from what he used to be. When Maria Saxonbury became Mr. Yorke’s wife, Mr. Janson had put her from his mind, as it was right to do. Mrs. Yorke rose to ring the bell. “You shall see Leopold,” she said.
“Not yet; let me speak a word to you; pray sit down again,” said Mr. Janson, interrupting her movement. “I want to consult some one, and I have — as you must know — a very high opinion of your discernment and good sense, so I wish to ask your advice. I shall value it more than that of any one else. You know Miss Maskell?”
“Yes. I have seen much of her since we came here,” replied Mrs. Yorke.
“Do you believe she would make a good wife?”
“I think her a very amiable, nice girl, quite a lady.
Yes, I am sure she would. Who is going to marry her?”
“I don’t know yet whether any one is,” he answered, with a smile. “But — people tell me I must marry, or lose my practice, for my patients say they will have a family man to attend them, not a bachelor. So I have been looking round about me, and begin to think that Lucy Maskell would be suitable.”
Mrs. Yorke laughed. “Oh, Mr. Janson! How coolly you speak! As coolly as you might if you were only going to take on a new surgery boy. These affairs should always be cased round with romance.”
He shook his head. “Romance died out for me years ago.” For one moment their eyes met; perhaps unwittingly; and then both looked determinedly at the fire again.
“I like Lucy Maskell much,” he resumed; “so far as liking goes. And — I believe” — a smile hovered on his lips— “that she likes me.”
“Let it take place, then, Mr. Janson. And I earnestly hope you will be happy. Believe me, you shall both have my best prayers and wishes for it,” was Mrs. Yorke’s answer. She was pleased that Mr. Janson was going to be happy at last, for she knew that she had once tried his heart severely. In the earnestness of her content, she put her hand into his, as she spoke — put it as a single-hearted, honest woman would.
And Mr. Janson clasped it, and leaned over towards her and thanked her kindly.
What dark shadow was that outside the window, with its face pressed against the pane? A face whose expression, just then, was as the face of a demon, whose eyes glared, and whose teeth glistened. They saw it not; but, as their hands met, and Mr. Janson leaned nearer to his companion, a noise, half savage growl, half shriek of defiance, escaped it. They heard that.
“What is that sound?” exclaimed Mrs. Yorke, turning towards the window. Nothing was there then.
“Somebody in the road come to grief in the fog,” suggested Mr. Janson. “Or a night-bird, probably. Shall I see Leopold now?”
Mrs. Yorke opened the room door and called to the child, who came running in. Then Mr. Janson left. “I hope I shall get home,” said he, jokingly.
Maria kept Leopold with her, and the time passed more swiftly than she thought. By and by, one of the servants came in to know if he should serve dinner.
“Why, what time is it?” inquired his mistress.
“Ever so much past six, ma’am.”
“I had no idea it was so late.”
“It was striking five when Mr. Janson left,” said the man.
Mrs. Yorke chose to wait; but when it grew near seven, she ordered the dinner to be served. She thought her husband had stopped to dine with some sporting acquaintance, or had lost his way in the fog. Scarcely had she sat down to it when she heard him enter, and go straight up-stairs; his step, as she fancied, unusually quiet.
“What can he want there without a candle?” she wondered. “Perhaps he thinks he can wash his hands in the dark, and would not wait for one.”
“Maria,” called out Mr. Yorke, his loud tones echoing through the house.
She rose and went to the door. “Yes.”
“Bring me up a light, will you. Bring it yourself.”
“‘What fad now?” thought Mrs. Yorke. “I take it up!” But she lighted a chamber candle, and went up-stairs with it, the servants, who were waiting at table, wondering. Her husband was standing inside their bedroom door, which was all but closed; nothing to be seen of him but his one hand stretched out for the light “Where have you been so late? Did the fog cause you to miss your way?”
He did not reply, only took the light from her. She pushed the door, wishing to enter, but it resisted her efforts. “Let me come in,” she said; “I have some news for you. Olivia Hardisty’s come.”
Not a word of reply was vouchsafed to her. Only the door banged to in her face, and the key of it turned.
“He is sulky again,” thought Maria. “How fortunate he did not happen to come home while Mr. Janson was here! Make haste,” she condescended to call out, as she retreated, “I have begun dinner.”
Mr. Yorke soon came down, dressed. A mark of attention given to Miss Hardisty, Maria supposed: or, so late as that, he would scarcely have troubled to dress. He did not speak, and did not eat; but he drank freely. He seemed also to have been drinking previously. A failing he was not given to.
“I asked you why you were so late,” said Maria. “You answered yourself,” was the reply— “That I lost my way. The fog was dense.”
“The fog seems to have taken away your appetite; and to have made you thirsty.”
“Luncheon did both. The meat was salt.”
“Where did you take luncheon?”
“At Squire Hipgrave’s.”
“Have you had good sport?”
“Middling. Who can shoot in a fog?”
“You have brought no birds home?”
“I left them at Hipgrave’s.”
“Pheasants, I suppose?”
“Yes. I wish you would not keep up this running fire of questions, Maria. My head aches.”
Mrs. Yorke ceased, and eat her dinner. As the cloth was being removed, her guest came in. Also Leopold. Mr. Yorke was compelled to exert himself a little then, but he had partaken too freely of wine, and Mrs. Yorke was vexed, for she believed it must be apparent to Miss Hardisty.
“How well Leopold looks, considering his long illness!” remarked Miss Hardisty.
“He is wonderful,” said Mrs. Yorke. “You would not think, to see him now, that he had been so very ill.”
“Papa,” cried Leopold, “Mr. Janson says I am got well soon because I was good, and took the physic without crying.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Yorke. “When did he say that?”
“To-night, when he was here with mamma, and they called me in.”
Mr. Yorke turned his eyes upon his wife, fixedly, steadily. “Was Janson here to-night?”
“This afternoon, between four and five. It seemed like night, it was so dark,” she answered, equably, but in spite of herself she could not prevent a vivid flush rising to her cheeks.
“You told me he had given over coming.”
“As he had. I remarked to him that I understood him to say so, and he replied that he did not call today professionally, but just dropped in, as he was passing, to inquire how Leopold continued. He told me a little bit of news, too, about himself,” added Maria to her husband, affecting to speak gaily. “I will repeat it to you by and by.”
When the child’s bedtime arrived, instead of Finch coming for him, it was Charlotte.
“Where’s Finch?” demanded Mrs. Yorke.
“She’s gone as far as the village, ma’am. She wanted to buy some ribbon at the shop.”
“Why did she choose such a night as this?” returned Mrs. Yorke. “How stupid she must be! she will lose her way.”
“She took a lantern, ma’am,” answered Charlotte. “She said she did not care for fogs. She won’t be long.”
Charlotte went off with Leopold, and Miss Hardisty smiled. “Servants are sadly wanting in common sense, many of them.”
“I suppose Finch had previously fixed on to-night to go out, and of course she could not bear to disappoint herself, but must go, fog or no fog. It’s just like them.”
> Mr. Yorke lay back in the easy-chair, and seemed to sleep. His wife apologised to Miss Hardisty, saying that he had had a hard morning’s shooting, and seemed “done up.”
About nine o’clock Finch came bursting into the room — her things on, just as she had entered the house. She was panting for breath.
“O ma’am, I don’t know how I’ve got home, what with the fog, and what with the fright! There has been such an awful murder!”
“Where?” asked Mrs. Yorke.
“Close on the other side the village. Some thieves set upon a farmer’s son riding home from market, and shot him, and pulled him off his horse, and beat him about the head till he died, and then rifled his pockets of his watch and money, and then left him in a pool of blood,” vehemently reiterated Finch, all in a breath. “He was found about five o’clock, and the village has been up in arms ever since. Everybody’s out of their houses.”
Mr. Yorke sat bolt upright in his chair. His eyes glittered upon Finch. —
“A pretty tale!” said he to his wife and Miss Hardisty, as Finch flew off to impart the news to the household. “This is how stories get exaggerated. There was no horse in the affair, and no robbery, and it was not a farmer’s son going home from market.”
“You heard of it, then?” exclaimed Miss Hardisty.
“Yes,” was Mr. Yorke’s reply.
“And never to have told us!” remonstrated his wife. “You say it was not a farmer’s son. Do you know who it is?”
“Janson. Murdered in his own garden as he was going in. Just inside the gate.”
CHAPTER XII.
A Premature Disclosure.
HORROR rose to the countenance of Miss Hardisty. It is natural it should so rise when a woman hears of such a crime committed in her vicinity. But what was her look of horror, compared to that overspreading the face of Mrs. Yorke? A living, shrinking horror, which pervaded every line of her features, and turned them to the hue of the grave.