by Ellen Wood
Some one had burst into the room — forgetting, probably, that it was the quiet room of an invalid. A tall, dark young man, with broad shoulders and a somewhat peculiar stoop in them. His hair was black, his complexion sallow; but his features were good. He might have been called a handsome man, but for a strange, ugly mark upon his cheek. A very strange-looking mark indeed, quite as large as a pigeon’s egg, with what looked like radii shooting from it on all sides. Some of the villagers, talking familiarly among themselves, would call it a hedgehog, some would call it a “porkypine”; but it resembled a star as much as anything. That is, if you can imagine a black star. The mark was black as jet; and his pale cheek, and the fact of his possessing no whiskers, made it all the more conspicuous. He was born with the mark; and his mother used to say — But that is of no consequence to us. It was Frederick Massingbird, the present Mrs. Verner’s younger son.
“Roy has come up, sir,” said he, addressing Mr. Verner. “He says the Dawsons have turned obstinate and won’t go out. They have barricaded the door, and protest that they’ll stay, in spite of him. He wishes to know if he shall use force.”
“No,” said Mr. Verner. “I don’t like harsh measures, and I will not have such attempted. Roy knows that.”
“Well, sir, he waits your orders. He says there’s half the village collected round Dawson’s door. The place is in a regular commotion.”
Mr. Verner looked vexed. Of late years he had declined active management on his estate; and, since he grew ill, he particularly disliked being disturbed with details.
“Where’s Lionel?” he asked in a peevish tone.
“I saw Lionel ride out an hour ago. I don’t know where he is gone.”
“Tell Roy to let the affair rest until to-morrow, when Lionel will see about it. And, Frederick, I wish you would remember that a little noise shakes me: try to come in more quietly. You burst in as if my nerves were as strong as your own.”
Mr. Verner turned to his fire again with an air of relief, glad to have got rid of the trouble in some way, and Frederick Massingbird proceeded to what was called the steward’s room, where Roy waited. This Roy, a hard-looking man with a face very much seamed with the smallpox, was working bailiff to Mr. Verner. Until within a few years he had been but a labourer on the estate. He was not liked among the poor tenants, and was generally honoured with the appellation “Old Grips,” or “Grip Roy.”
“Roy,” said Frederick Massingbird, “Mr. Verner says it is to be left until to-morrow morning. Mr. Lionel will see about it then. He is out at present.”
“And let the mob have it all their own way for to-night?” returned Roy angrily. “They be in a state of mutiny, they be; a-saying everything as they can lay their tongues to.”
“Let them say it,” responded Frederick Massingbird. “Leave them alone, and they’ll disperse quietly enough. I shall not go in to Mr. Verner again, Roy. I caught it now for disturbing him. You must let it rest until you can see Mr. Lionel.”
The bailiff went off, growling. He would have liked to receive carte-blanche for dealing with the mob — as he was pleased to term them — between whom and himself there was no love lost. As he was crossing a paved yard at the back of the house, some one came hastily out of the laundry in the detached premises to the side, and crossed his path.
A very beautiful girl. Her features were delicate, her complexion was fair as alabaster, and a bright colour mantled in her cheeks. But for the modest cap upon her head, a stranger might have been puzzled to guess at her condition in life. She looked gentle and refined as any lady, and her manners and speech would not have destroyed the illusion. She may be called a protégée of the house, as will be explained presently; but she acted as maid to Mrs. Verner. The bright colour deepened to a glowing one when she saw the bailiff.
He put out his hand and stopped her. “Well, Rachel, how are you?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she answered, endeavouring to pass on. But he would not suffer it.
“I say, I want to come to the bottom of this business between you and Luke,” he said, lowering his voice. “What’s the rights of it?”
“Between me and Luke?” she repeated, turning upon the bailiff an eye that had some scorn in it, and stopping now of her own accord. “There is no business whatever between me and Luke. There never has been. What do you mean?”
“Chut!” cried the bailiff. “Don’t I know that he has followed your steps everywhere like a shadder; that he has been ready to kiss the very ground you trod on? And right mad I have been with him for it. You can’t deny that he has been after you, wanting you to be his wife.”
“I do not wish to deny it,” she replied. “You and the whole world are quite welcome to know all that has passed between me and Luke. He asked to be allowed to come here to see me — to ‘court’ me, he phrased it — which I distinctly declined. Then he took to following me about. He did not molest me, he was not rude — I do not wish to make it out worse than it was — but it is not pleasant, Mr. Roy, to be followed whenever you may take a walk. Especially by one you dislike.”
“What is there to dislike in Luke?” demanded the bailiff.
“Perhaps I ought to have said by one you do not like,” she resumed. “To like Luke, in the way he wished, was impossible for me, and I told him so from the first. When I found that he dodged my steps, I spoke to him again, and threatened that I should acquaint Mr. Verner. I told him, once for all, that I could not like him, that I never would have him; and since then he has kept his distance. That is all that has ever passed between me and Luke.”
“Well, your hard-heartedness has done for him, Rachel Frost. It has drove him away from his native home, and sent him, a exile, to rough it in foreign lands. You may fix upon one as won’t do for you and be your slave as Luke would. He could have kept you well.”
“I heard he had gone to London,” she remarked.
“London!” returned the bailiff slightingly. “That’s only the first halt on the journey. And you have drove him to it!”
“I can’t help it,” she replied, turning to the house. “I had no natural liking for him, and I could not force it. I don’t believe he has gone away for that trifling reason, Mr. Roy. If he has, he must be very foolish.”
“Yes, he is foolish,” muttered the bailiff to himself, as he strode away. “He’s a idiot, that’s what he is! and so be all men that loses their wits a-sighing after a girl. Vain, deceitful, fickle creatures, the girls be when they’re young; but once let them get a hold on you, your ring on their finger, and they turn into vixenish, snarling women! Luke’s a sight best off without her.”
Rachel Frost proceeded indoors. The door of the steward’s room stood open, and she turned into it, fancying it was empty. Down on a chair sat she, a marked change coming over her air and manner. Her bright colour had faded, her hands hung down listless; and there was an expression on her face of care, of perplexity. Suddenly she lifted her hands and struck her temples, with a gesture that looked very like despair.
“What ails you, Rachel?”
The question came from Frederick Massingbird, who had been standing at the window behind the high desk, unobserved by Rachel. Violently startled, she sprang up from her seat, her face a glowing crimson, muttering some disjointed words, to the effect that she did not know anybody was there.
“What were you and Roy discussing so eagerly in the yard?” continued Frederick Massingbird. But the words had scarcely escaped his lips, when the housekeeper, Mrs. Tynn, entered the room. She had a mottled face and mottled arms, her sleeves just now being turned up to the elbow.
“It was nothing particular, Mr. Frederick,” replied Rachel.
“Roy is gone, is he not?” he continued to Rachel.
“Yes, sir.”
“Rachel,” interposed the housekeeper, “are those things not ready yet, in the laundry?”
“Not quite. In a quarter of an hour, they say.”
The housekeeper, with a word of impatience at the laundr
y’s delay, went out and crossed the yard towards it. Frederick Massingbird turned again to Rachel.
“Roy seemed to be grumbling at you.”
“He accused me of being the cause of his son’s going away. He thinks I ought to have noticed him.”
Frederick Massingbird made no reply. He raised his finger and gently rubbed it round and round the mark upon his cheek: a habit he had acquired when a child, and they could not entirely break him of it. He was seven-and-twenty years of age now, but he was sure to begin rubbing that mark unconsciously, if in deep thought. Rachel resumed, her tone a covert one, as if the subject on which she was about to speak might not be breathed, even to the walls.
“Roy hinted that his son was going to foreign lands. I did not choose to let him see that I knew anything, so remarked that I had heard he was gone to London. ‘London!’ he answered; ‘that was only the first halting-place on the journey!’”
“Did he give any hint about John?”
“Not a word,” replied Rachel. “He would not be likely to do that.”
“No. Roy can keep counsel, whatever other virtues he may run short of. Suppose you had joined your fortunes to sighing Luke’s, Rachel, and gone out with him to grow rich together?” added Frederick Massingbird, in a tone which could be taken for either jest or earnest.
She evidently took it as the latter, and it appeared to call up an angry spirit. She was vexed almost to tears. Frederick Massingbird detected it.
“Silly Rachel!” he said, with a smile. “Do you suppose I should really counsel your throwing yourself away upon Luke Roy? — Rachel,” he continued, as the housekeeper again made her appearance, “you must bring up the things as soon as they are ready. My brother is waiting for them.”
“I’ll bring them up, sir,” replied Rachel.
Frederick Massingbird passed through the passages to the hall, and then proceeded upstairs to the bedroom occupied by his brother. A sufficiently spacious room for any ordinary purpose, but it did not look half large enough now for the litter that was in it. Wardrobes and drawers were standing open, their contents half out, half in; chairs, tables, bed, were strewed; and boxes and portmanteaus were gaping open on the floor. John Massingbird, the elder brother, was stowing away some of this litter into the boxes; not all sixes and sevens, as it looked lying there, but compactly and artistically. John Massingbird possessed a ready hand at packing and arranging; and therefore he preferred doing it himself to deputing it to others. He was one year older than his brother, and there was a great likeness between them in figure and in feature. Not in expression: in that, they were widely different. They were about the same height, and there was the same stoop observable in the shoulders; the features also were similar in cast, and sallow in hue; the same the black eyes and hair. John had large whiskers, otherwise the likeness would have been more striking; and his face was not disfigured by the strange black mark. He was the better looking of the two; his face wore an easy, good-natured, free expression; while Frederick’s was cold and reserved. Many people called John Massingbird a handsome man. In character they were quite opposite. John was a harum-scarum chap, up to every scrape; Fred was cautious and steady as Old Time.
Seated in the only free chair in the room — free from litter — was a tall, stout lady. But that she had so much crimson about her, she would have borne a remarkable resemblance to those two young men, her sons. She wore a silk dress, gold in one light, green in another, with broad crimson stripes running across it; her cap was of white lace garnished with crimson ribbons, and her cheeks and nose were crimson to match. As if this were not enough, she wore crimson streamers at her wrists, and a crimson bow on the front of her gown. Had you been outside, you might have seen that the burnished gold on the window-panes had turned to crimson, for the setting sun had changed its hue: but the panes could not look more brightly, deeply crimson, than did Mrs. Verner. It seemed as if you might light a match at her face. In that particular, there was a contrast between her and the perfectly pale, sallow faces of her sons; otherwise the resemblance was great.
“Fred,” said Mrs. Verner, “I wish you would see what they are at with the shirts and things. I sent Rachel after them, but she does not come back, and then I sent Mary Tynn, and she does not come. Here’s John as impatient as he can be.”
She spoke in a slow, somewhat indifferent tone, as if she did not care to put herself out of the way about it. Indeed it was not Mrs. Verner’s custom to put herself out of the way for anything. She liked to eat, drink, and sleep in undisturbed peace; and she generally did so.
“John’s impatient because he wants to get it over,” spoke up that gentleman himself in a merry voice. “Fifty thousand things I have to do, between now and to-morrow night. If they don’t bring the clothes soon, I shall close the boxes without them, and leave them a legacy for Fred.”
“You have only yourself to thank, John,” said his mother. “You never gave the things out until after breakfast this morning, and then required them to be done by the afternoon. Such nonsense, to say they had grown yellow in the drawers! They’ll be yellower by the time you get there. It is just like you! driving off everything till the last moment. You have known you were going for some days past.”
John was stamping upon a box to get down the lid, and did not attend to the reproach. “See if it will lock, Fred, will you?” said he.
Frederick Massingbird stooped and essayed to turn the key. And just then Mrs. Tynn entered with a tray of clean linen, which she set down. Rachel followed, having a contrivance in her hand, made of silk, for the holding of needles, threads, and pins, all in one.
She looked positively beautiful as she held it out before Mrs. Verner. The evening rays fell upon her exquisite face, with its soft, dark eyes and its changing colour; they fell upon her silk dress, a relic of Mrs. Verner’s — but it had no crimson stripes across it; upon her lace collar, upon the little edge of lace at her wrists. Nature had certainly intended Rachel for a lady, with her graceful form, her charming manners, and her delicate hands.
“Will this do, ma’am?” she inquired. “Is it the sort of thing you meant?”
“Ay, that will do, Rachel,” replied Mrs. Verner. “John, here’s a huswife for you!”
“A what?” asked John Massingbird, arresting his stamping.
“A needle-book to hold your needles and thread. Rachel has made it nicely. Sha’n’t you want a thimble?”
“Goodness knows,” replied John. “That’s it, Fred! that’s it! Give it a turn.”
Frederick Massingbird locked the box, and then left the room. His mother followed him, telling John she had a large steel thimble somewhere, and would try to find it for him. Rachel began filling the huswife with needles, and John went on with his packing.
“Hollo!” he presently exclaimed. And Rachel looked up.
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“I have pulled one of the strings off this green case. You must sew it on again, Rachel.”
He brought a piece of green baize to her and a broken string. It looked something like the cover of a pocket-book or of a small case of instruments.
Rachel’s nimble fingers soon repaired the damage. John stood before her, looking on.
Looking not only at the progress of the work, but at her. Mr. John Massingbird was one who had an eye for beauty; he had not seen much in his life that could match with that before him. As Rachel held the case up to him, the damage repaired, he suddenly bent his head to steal a kiss.
But Rachel was too quick for him. She flung his face away with her hand; she flushed vividly; she was grievously indignant. That she considered it in the light of an insult was only too apparent; her voice was pained — her words were severe.
“Be quiet, stupid! I was not going to eat you,” laughed John Massingbird. “I won’t tell Luke.”
“Insult upon insult!” she exclaimed, strangely excited. “You know that Luke Roy is nothing to me, Mr. Massingbird; you know that I have never in my life vouchsafed
to give him an encouraging word. But, much as I despise him — much as he is beneath me — I would rather submit to have my face touched by him than by you.”
What more she would have said was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs. Verner. That lady’s ears had caught the sound of the contest; of the harsh words; and she felt inexpressibly surprised.
“What has happened?” she asked. “What is it, Rachel?”
“She pricked herself with one of the needles,” said John, taking the explanation upon himself; “and then said I did it.”
Mrs. Verner looked from one to the other. Rachel had turned quite pale. John laughed; he knew his mother did not believe him.
“The truth is, mother, I began teasing Rachel about her admirer, Luke. It made her angry.”
“What absurdity!” exclaimed Mrs. Verner testily, to Rachel. “My opinion is, you would have done well to encourage Luke. He was steady and respectable; and old Roy must have saved plenty of money.”
Rachel burst into tears.
“What now!” cried Mrs. Verner. “Not a word can anybody say to you lately, Rachel, but you must begin to cry as if you were heart-broken. What has come to you, child? Is anything the matter with you?”
The tears deepened into long sobs of agony, as though her heart were indeed broken. She held her handkerchief up to her face, and went sobbing from the room.
Mrs. Verner gazed after her in very astonishment. “What has taken her? What can it possibly be?” she uttered. “John, you must know.”