by Ellen Wood
“Has he!” returned Laura, upon whom the words acted as a ‘check. “She is not at home. I am sure she’s not!”
Jane dropped her voice, “We cannot find Clarice, Laura.”
“Not find Clarice! What do you mean?”
“Simply what I say: we cannot find her. I sought out the situation she was at in Gloucester Terrace, — in fact, she was at two situations there, one after the other, but she did not remain long in either. She left the last a twelvemonth ago last June, and no trace of her since then can be discovered. Our only conjecture is, that she must have gone to the Continent with some family, or abroad elsewhere. Papa has caused the lists of passports at the most frequented ports to be searched, but without success; but that we think little of, as she may have been entered merely as ‘the governess.’ In short, we have searched for her in all ways, and the police have searched; and we can hear nothing of her. The uneasiness this gives me, Laura, I cannot express to you; and papa — in spite of your opinion of his heartlessness — is as much troubled as I am.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” exclaimed Laura, when her astonishment allowed her to speak. “Not find Clarice!”
In her eagerness she reiterated question upon question, and Jane told her all the particulars she had been able to glean. They were with difficulty received.
“Nothing at all has been heard of her since last June — that is June twelvemonth?” repeated Laura. “But, Jane, you had letters from her after that?”
“I know I had; one; but it gave me no clue to where she was. It was the letter that came to us last New Years day, to wish us the bonne année.”
“That was not the last letter you had from her?”
“Yes, it was. I wrote three letters to her afterwards, and found them lying at the library, unclaimed. Do you recollect my telling you of a singular dream I had, relating to Clarice — a disagreeable dream?”
“I recollect your not telling it me,” replied Laura. “You said you had a dream that troubled you, but you would not narrate it, fearing my ridicule.”
“Yes,” said Jane: “it was in March. The dream made me very uneasy, and I wrote, as I tell you, more than once to Clarice, begging tidings of her. They were the letters I speak of. Every phase of that dream is as vivid to my mind now as it was then. There are moments when the superstition is all too strong upon me that it only shadowed forth the reality of Clarice’s fate. I seem to know that we shall never find her — in life.”
Laura would have liked to use ridicule then. “Can’t you tell me the dream, Jane?”
“No,” shuddered Jane, “I cannot tell it. Least of all to you.” Laura became curious. “Why least of all to me?”
“Because — because — in the same dream, mixed up with Clarice, mixed up with the horror — but, I am foolish, I think,” broke off Jane. “I shall say no more about it, Laura.”
Laura did not care. She had been in the habit of laughing at Jane’s dreams, and she would laugh still. Jane Chesney had certainly had two or three most singular dreams, which had borne reference in a remarkable degree to subsequent realities of life. One of them had foreshadowed her mother’s death, and Jane had related it before the death took place. That the events following upon and bearing out the dreams were singular coincidences, can at least be said. And yet Jane Chesney was not by nature inclined to superstition; the dreams had, in a degree, forced it upon her. She buried the feeling within herself, as we all like to bury those feelings which touch wholly on the imagination — that inner life within the life. But of all her dreams, never had she been visited by one bearing half the vivid horror, the horror of reality, as did this last one relating to her sister Clarice.
“It is very deceitful of you, Jane, to persist to my face that you have not heard from Clarice since the new year,” resumed Laura. Jane raised her eyelids. “I have not heard from her since.”
“Where’s the use of saying so, Jane?” and Laura’s voice became peevish, for she had as much dislike to be kept in the dark as had her father the earl. “You know quite well that you had at least one letter after that, and a most affectionate and loving one.”
Jane was surprised. “I do not know what your head is running upon, Laura, but I do know that I never had a line or syllable from Clarice after that January letter.”
Laura took out her purse, a handsome portemonnaie, the gift of Mr. Carlton, and extracted from it a small piece of paper that had once formed part of a letter.
“Look there, Jane. You know Clarice’s writing: is that hers or is it not? I put it into my purse to-day to bring it to you.”
“Oh yes, it is Clarice’s writing,” said Jane, the instant it was in her hands. It was the upper part of the first page of the letter, and was dated from London on the 28th of the previous February. It began as follows:
“My dearest, I am about to make a proposal to you, and—”
Then the paper was torn. On the reverse side was the conclusion of the note, which had apparently been a short one.
“ — without delay. Ever your own Clarice.”
Jane Chesney pondered over the words, especially over the date. But she had never seen the note in her life before, and said so.
“Nonsense,” said Laura. “If it was not addressed to you, Jane, to whom was it addressed? Clarice never wrote home to any one except you after her departure.”
“How did you become possessed of this?” inquired Jane.
“It came from home with my clothes.”
“Impossible,” said Jane. “I collected your things myself and packed them. There was no such scrap of paper, as this, amongst them.”
“I tell you, Jane, it came to me in my box. Some little time ago a pair of my lace sleeves were mislaid. I was angry with my maid, and turned the drawer, where my lace things are kept, out upon the floor. In picking them up to replace them, I found this paper. That it had come from home with my laces is certain, for they were emptied straight from the trunk into that drawer. And there it must have remained since unnoticed, probably slipped under the paper laid at the bottom of the drawer.”
“It appears to me inexplicable,” returned Jane. “I know that I never received the note; and, as you say, Clarice wrote home only to me. But she never worded her letters in that strain: it is more as a wife would write to her husband.”
“The display of affection struck me,” said Laura. “I thought she had suddenly grown very affectionate.”
“Clarice has too much good sense to indulge in foolishly fond expressions,” said Jane. “I cannot understand this,” she resumed. “It seems all on a par with the rest, full of nothing but mystery. Will you give me this scrap of paper, Laura?”
“You may keep it, and welcome. I hope we shall soon hear of her. It is so dreadfully inconsistent for Lady Clarice Chesney, or Lady any one else, to be earning her living as a governess. But I suppose she is abroad and cannot have heard of the change. Jane — to leave the subject — do you know that I saw papa at Pembury?”
“No.”
“I did. I was visiting Colonel and Mrs. Marden, they are such nice people — but you know them yourself. I was driving through the street in the pony-carriage with Mrs. Marden, and we met Sir James’s mail-cart, he and papa in it. Between astonishment and fear I was nearly frightened out of my wits. I pulled the reins and started the ponies off, and the next day we heard that papa had left again.”
“Are you going?” asked Jane, for Laura had risen.
“I must go now. I shall come in again soon, for I have not said half I wanted to say, or remembered half the questions I wished to ask. Good-bye, Jane; come with me as far as the gate.”
“I don’t feel well enough to go out,” was Jane’s answer. “Nonsense, that’s all fancy. A minute’s walk in this bright sunshine will do you good.”
Jane yielded. She muffled herself up and accompanied Laura to the gate. It was a warm autumn day, the changing leaves glinting in the brilliant sunshine. Jane really did feel that the air revived her,
and did not immediately hasten indoors.
Laura shook hands and proceeded down the road. Just after she had passed its bend, she encountered her husband. He was advancing with a quick step, swinging a cane in his hand.
“Oh, Lewis, were you coming in search of me?” —
“Not I,” said Mr. Carlton, laughing. “It would take I don’t know what amount of moral courage to venture into the precincts of my enemy, Lady Jane. Has it been a stormy interview, Laura?”
“It has been a very pleasant one. Not that Jane is a model of suavity in all things. She tells me I may go and see her whenever I please, but you are not to go, and she won’t come to my house.”
“Then I’d retaliate, Laura, by not going to hers.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” was Laura’s careless answer. “I should like to see her sometimes, and I dare say she’ll come round after a time. Won’t you walk home with me, Lewis?”
“I cannot, my dearest. A patient is waiting for me.”
“Who is it?”
“A farmer’s wife: no one you know. She is very ill.”
They parted. Laura went towards home and Mr. Carlton continued his way up the Rise. As he passed the bend, he became aware that some one was advancing from an opposite direction, and recognized young Frederick Grey. And Master Frederick was in a fiery temper.
A word of explanation as to its cause is necessary. At the Michaelmas just past, a Mr. Thrupp and his wife, people from a distance, had come to live at a small farm a little beyond the Rise. A short time after taking possession, the wife was seized with illness, and Mr. Carlton was called in. The farmer knew nothing and had heard nothing of the merits of the different practitioners of the place, but Mr. Carlton lived nearest to him, and therefore he was summoned.
Mr. Carlton obeyed the call. But the case assumed an alarming aspect, and after a few days he suggested that another doctor should meet him in consultation, and mentioned Mr. John Grey. The farmer, Mr. Thrupp, went to the Greys’ residence, to request Mr. John’s attendance early the following morning. Mr. John was out, but Mr. Stephen was in; and the farmer knowing nothing of the prejudice against the latter, arranged that he should go instead of his brother. Mr. Carlton was very much surprised to meet him. He said nothing in his presence, but he remained to say it after Mr. Stephen had departed. This was on the morning of the day when Lady Laura had called upon her sister. Mr. Carlton was now on his way to the farm, unconscious that Frederick Grey, bearing down upon him, had just left it.
In point of fact, Frederick had been sent up by his father to inquire the result of certain remedies ordered at the consultation. On the boy’s arrival there the farmer came out to speak with him.
“You are perhaps a relation of the Mr. Greys’, sir?” said he, after replying to the inquiries of Frederick.
“I am Mr. Stephen Grey’s son. Why?”
Mr. Thrupp, a simple-looking man, scratched his head.
“Then perhaps you’ll be good enough to say, sir, that we’d rather the gentleman didn’t come again,” he resumed, bringing the words out with hesitation, for he did not much like to speak them. “It has so flustered my wife to hear that he sometimes sends poison by mistake in his physic bottles, that his visit has done her more harm than good. She is a trifle better, and she thinks Dr. Carlton can get her round now by himself. If you’ll be just good enough to say so, sir, to Mr. Stephen Grey, with our thanks for his visit of this morning.”
The indignant red dyed Frederick Grey’s features. “Who in the world told you that calumny of my father?” he asked.
“No offence, sir,” returned the farmer civilly. “I’m sure I don’t intend any, personally, for we know nothing but what we hear. After the gentleman had left, the other one, Dr. Carlton, asked how we could think of calling him into the house. He said it might cost us our lives some time, for he was not particular in making up his medicines, and one lady had died through it. The other brother, Mr. John, was quite reliable, he said, and it was him he had told me to call in. I asked my next-door neighbour whether it was true, and he said it was true that a lady did die after taking some physic sent by him. It gave my wife such a turn, sir, that we feared she was going — and perhaps you’ll please tell him, not meaning any offence, that we’d rather he didn’t come again.”
Frederick Grey quitted the farmer, his blood rising up against the injustice done his father, against the malice (as he regarded it) of Mr. Carlton. It was in returning from this very unsatisfactory interview, and when Master Frederick was in this very unsatisfactory temper, that the two unhappily came into contact, meeting exactly opposite the gate of Lady Jane Chesney.
Lady Jane might be called a third party at the interview. She had taken a turn on the path after the departure of Laura, and on nearing the gate again heard footsteps in the road, and looked out incidentally. There was Mr. Carlton close to her on the one side and Stephen Grey’s son on the other. Not caring to be so much as seen by the surgeon, she stepped behind the hedge until he should have passed.
But they were not to pass so soon. Mr. Carlton was striding on with a half indifferent, half supercilious nod to the boy, when the latter, bold, fearless, and angry, placed himself in his path.
“Don’t brush by me so quickly, if you please, Mr. Carlton. I’ll thank you to explain first what it is you have been saying at Thrupp’s farm about my father.”
Mr. Carlton stared at him, stared more especially at the address; and the supercilious expression deepened on his countenance.
“You are in a temper, I should think, young sir,” was the answer, delivered with stinging blandness. “I and Mr. Stephen Grey can settle our own affairs without your aid.”
The tone turned Frederick half mad, and he forgot his prudence. “You are a wicked, designing man,” he burst forth. “You have been working in an underhand manner to drive my father from the place; not a day passes but you are secretly traducing him. Why don’t you do it openly to his face, Mr. Carlton? Why do you do it behind his back, when he can’t defend himself?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Mr. Carlton. “Stand aside, and let me pass.”
“You do know what I mean,” retorted the boy, keeping his place before Mr. Carlton, so that the surgeon could not pass. “He met you in consultation at Thrupp’s this morning, and the moment his back was turned you began to prejudice their minds against him; saying he was in the habit of sending out poisoned medicines, and it frightened the woman so, that they will not have him again. And this has been your game for months. How dare you continue to assert that my father poisoned the draught that night when you know he did not? When you know it, I say!”
Mr. Carlton lifted his cane menacingly. “But for the respect I bear your uncle, as my brother-practitioner, and your father also, in spite of the error he committed, I would lay this about your shoulders, young gentleman, and teach you better manners.”
Master Frederick’s passion was not calmed by the threat, and it may be questioned if he even knew in that wild moment the danger of the words he was about to utter.
“You know, I say, that Mr. Stephen Grey did not commit the error. You know that it was you who dropped the poison into the draught when you were alone with it after it was delivered. Keep your cane off me, Mr. Carlton; blows will not mend murder. If it was not you, it was that villain you saw on the stairs, and you, perhaps by bribery, undertook to keep his counsel and turn suspicion from him. You saw that I suspected you the very night it was done; you saw that I suspected you when you were giving your plausible evidence at the inquest. What the poor young lady had done to you, you best know, but I believe in my true heart, and I tell it you with God hearing me, that you were guilty either of killing her, or of screening the man who did do it. Now, go and talk about my father, Mr. Carlton.”
It was only by dint of the most ingenious dodging that Frederick Grey had been able to accomplish his say, but Mr. Carlton caught him now. The cane came down on his shoulders; and Frederick, passion giving him the str
ength of a young lion, seized it and broke it in two. Mr. Carlton walked away, leaving a careless and scornful epithet behind him; and the boy leaned against the gate to recover breath and equanimity.
A tap on the shoulder, and Frederick turned. There stood Lady Jane Chesney. He raised his hat, and she could not help being struck with the nobility of the glowing countenance, the fearless truth of the large grey eyes.
“Frederick Grey, do you know that I have heard every syllable you said to Mr. Carlton? Surely you do not believe in your own accusation? It must have had its rise only in the heat of passion?”
“Lady Jane — I beg your pardon — I am sorry you heard this — I hope you do not think me capable of making such an accusation not believing it. I do believe it; I have believed it ever since that night. Not that I have what might be called reason for believing it,” he hastily added. “It is only an instinct within me. I am sure Mr. Carlton knows in some way more about it than he will say. I think he must have been bribed by the man who did it.”
“Do you remember that — although we are at variance and I do not like him — he is my brother-in-law?”
“Yes. I am very sorry that you heard what passed,” he repeated. “Perhaps, Lady Jane, you will be kind enough to let it be as though you had not heard it?”
“I will,” said Lady Jane. “And in return allow me to recommend you not to give utterance to sentiments so dangerous. My opinion is that you are totally wrong in your fancy, and that prejudice against Mr. Carlton has led you into the error. It is impossible to believe otherwise. Some men — I do not know that Mr. Carlton is one — would bring you before the law for this, and make you prove your words, or punish you if you could not do so. Be more discreet in future.”
“Thank you,” he answered, his sunny smile returning to him; “it is a bargain, Lady Jane. I was in a dreadful passion, there’s no denying it, and I did say more than I ought to have said. Thank you very much.”
And replacing his hat, for he had stood bareheaded during the interview, Frederick Grey vaulted away, flinging the pieces of cane from him as he ran. Lady Jane stood looking after him.