by Ellen Wood
“If I have been wrong in my prejudice, more obstinate than I ought to have been, if it brought pain to my dear father, may God forgive me!” she murmured. “Yes, Lady Oakburn, we will be friends henceforth; good friends, I trust; never more enemies.”
And Lady Oakburn took Jane’s hand and sobbed over it. The trouble she had brought upon Lady Jane, the estrangement caused by her between Jane and her father, had been the one thorn in the countess’s wedded life.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE NEXT DAY.
ON the morning following the death, Judith went abroad to make certain purchases for her mistress, and in passing along Piccadilly she encountered Stephen Grey — now Dr. Grey, as you have heard. The two stopped, mutually surprised and delighted. It is pleasant to meet an old face from one’s native place, no matter what the social degree.
“Why, Judith,” he exclaimed, “is it you or your ghost? What wind blew you to town?”
He put out his hand to shake hands with her: he was the same Stephen Grey as ever, free and cordial. Judith’s face glowed with pleasure. If there was one person in all South Wennock who believed in Mr. Stephen Grey’s innocence, and that he was an ill-used man, it was Judith Ford.
“Lady Jane was telegraphed for yesterday, sir,” she explained. “The earl was dying. We reached London in the afternoon, and he died a few minutes past eleven at night.”
“I heard of his death this morning. Gout, I suppose?”
“Gout in the stomach, I believe, sir,” replied Judith. “But he suffered as good as nothing yesterday, and died peacefully as a child.”
“He would not suffer much towards the last,” remarked the doctor. “And the young earl is a strapping shaver of four days old! Death and birth, Judith; the one comes to replace the other.”
“It’s in the course of nature that it should be so, sir,” was Judith’s answer. “But as to the baby being strapping, I don’t know about that, for I have not seen him. It’s born healthy and straight, the servants say, and that’s the chief thing. Lady Laura is up in Portland Place also,” she added, “but she did not get there in time to see her father alive.”
“How was that — if Lady Jane could do so?”
“Lady Laura was visiting at Pembury. My lady sent a note to her, thinking she was at home, and we called for her in the fly as we were going to the station. Mr. Carlton came out to Lady Jane. I don’t fancy she much liked meeting him; she has never once met him face to face, sir, until yesterday, since the marriage.”
“How is Carlton getting on?” asked the doctor. “Well, I hear.”
“Very well, I believe,” answered Judith. “But Mr. Grey and his partner, Mr. Lycett, have as much as ever they can do. There’s plenty of practice for all, sir.”
“I always said so,” replied the doctor. “Do Carlton and Frederick fall out still?” And he laughed as he asked the question, “Not that I hear of, sir. I fancy they keep apart, for there’s no love lost between them. He gets very good-looking, does Master Frederick. The last time I saw him he said he should soon be leaving for London.”
“Very soon now. But we thought it better he should remain for a time at South Wennock, where he sees more of the drudgery of the profession than he would with me.”
“And, sir, if I may make bold to ask it, how are you prospering?”
“Famously, Judith. Short as the time is that I have been here, I am making a great deal more than I did at South Wennock. So if your friend, Carlton, thought to ruin me by driving me away, he has not succeeded in his wish.”
The doctor spoke in light, pleasant tones. He cherished enmity to none, not even to Mr. Carlton; to do so was not in his nature. But Judith resented the words.
“Mr. Carlton is no friend of mine, sir; I don’t like him well enough for that. When shall you be paying a visit to South Wennock, Mr. Stephen?”
“My goodness, Judith! The idea of your calling me ‘Mr. Stephen!”’ returned the jesting doctor. “I’m a great man now, and shall enter an action against you for loss of title. Don’t you know that I am the famous Dr. Grey?”
Judith smiled. His merriment was contagious. “But when shall you be coming, sir?”
“Perhaps never,” he replied, a shade of seriousness rising to his face. “South Wennock did not treat me so well that I should wish to see it again speedily. Should the mystery ever be cleared up about that draught — and, mark you, Judith, when it is cleared up, it will be found that I was innocent — then I may visit it again.”
Judith fell into momentary thought, wondering whether the mystery ever would be cleared up. She hoped it would be sometime; and yet — she dreaded that that time should come.
“You will look in upon us, won’t you, Judith, now you are in town? Mrs. Stephen Grey will be glad to see an old face.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Judith, much gratified by the invitation. “I shall be glad to pay my duty to Mrs. Grey. Does London agree with her, sir?”
“I’m afraid it does not, Judith, very well. But neither did South Wennock. She is always delicate, you know, let her be where she will. Ah, Judith, if we could only find some spot in this lower world, warranted to give health to all invalids, what a thing it would be! As great a boon as the mill we are always looking for that grinds folk young again.”
He was turning away laughing. Judith stopped him.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not know your address.”
“Bless me, don’t you! I thought all the world knew where the great Dr. Grey lived,” he returned jestingly. “There it is” — giving her his card—” Savile Row; and mind you find your way to it.” Curious to say, that accidental interview, that simple card given to Judith, led to an event quite unlooked for.
When Judith reached home — that is, her home for the time being, Portland Place — she found the house in commotion, although it was the house of the dead. Lady Oakburn had dismissed her medical attendant, Dr. James.
She had done it, as she did most things, in a quiet, lady-like manner, but one absolutely firm and uncompromising. Dr. James had by stratagem, by untruth, prevented a last interview between herself and her husband, and she felt that she could not regard him again with feelings unallied to vexation and anger. It was better therefore that they should part. Dr. James urged that what he had done, he had done for the best, out of concern for her ladyship’s welfare. That, her ladyship did not doubt, she answered; but she could not forget or forgive the way in which it had been accomplished. In her judgment, Dr. James should have imparted to her the truth of her husband’s state, and then urged prudence upon her. It was the deceit she could not forgive, or — in short — countenance.
The result was the dismissal of Dr. James, and the dismay of the nurse in attendance upon the countess. The dismay extended itself to Lady Jane. Although the imprudence of Lady Oakburn on the previous night appeared not to have materially affected her, still she was not yet in a sufficiently convalescent state to be left without a medical attendant. Lady Oakburn appeared to think she was so. She was not personally acquainted with any other doctor in London, she said to Jane, and seemed to dislike the idea of a stranger’s being called in to her of whose ways and skill she could know nothing. It was in this dilemma that Judith found the house on her return.
“Oh, my lady,” she exclaimed to her mistress on the spur of the moment, “if the countess would only call in Mr. Stephen Grey! He is so safe! so skilful! and she could not fail to like him.”
She extended the card as she spoke, and mentioned the recent interview. Jane listened, and carried the card to the countess.
“Let me send for him, Lady Oakburn,” she urged. “I do think it is necessary that you should have some one; and, as Judith says, you could not fail to like Dr. Grey.”
Lady Oakburn consented. Known well to Judith, partially known to Lady Jane, he would not seem quite a stranger: and Stephen Grey was sent for. It was the first step in the friendship that ensued between the Greys and Lady Oakburn: a friendship that
was destined to bring great events in its train.
It was a somewhat singular coincidence that the Dowager Countess of Oakburn should die the day after the earl. Such was the fact, however. She had been ill for several weeks. No immediate danger was apprehended, but in the very hour that she heard news of the earl’s death — the tidings of which were conveyed to her in the morning — she was taken suddenly worse, and expired at three o’clock in the afternoon. Lady Jane went to her house at Kensington and was in time to see her alive, but she had then lost consciousness, and was speechless. One of the old countess’s granddaughters said — it was a dreadfully irreverent thing to say — that they must have gone together to plague each other on the journey, just as they had plagued each other in life.
It was decided that the two funerals should take place at the same time and place in one of the great London cemeteries. The burial-place of the Earls of Oakburn was Chesney Oaks; but he, the old sailor just gone, had expressly desired that no parade and no expense, beyond what was absolutely necessary, should be wasted upon him. To convey him to Chesney Oaks would involve considerable outlay; his poor worthless body would not rest any the better for it, he quaintly said; let it be put into the ground in the simplest manner possible, and in the nearest cemetery. The executors of the dowager countess thought it well to observe the same simplicity with regard to her, and it was arranged that they should be interred together.
Jane and Laura remained in town until the funeral should be over. They would not quit the house while their father lay dead in it; and in the reconciliation with his widow, there was no necessity for hurrying away. Laura, impetuous in all her doings, took a violent fancy to the countess, protesting secretly to Jane that she was a far superior woman to what she had imagined; and it would be a convenient house to put up at, she candidly added, when she chose to visit London. Jane was not swayed by any motives so interested; but she could not help acknowledging to herself that the countess won upon her regard day by day.
“She has done her duty by Lucy,” Miss Snow remarked to Lady Jane confidentially. “Never a mother was more anxious for a child’s welfare than Lady Oakburn is for Lucy’s. I made my mind up at first not to remain; but when I found how good she was, how she tried to do her utmost for us all in loving-kindness, I thought I should be foolish to leave. She would not have kept me, though, but for the earl; she told me she should wish to take the child’s education entirely into her own hands, but he would not suffer it. I dare say she will take it now.”
They were busy over their mourning. Jane ordered hers quiet and good, befitting a lady, but plain; Laura chose hers for its magnificence. Jane ventured to caution her about expense, and Laura tossed her head in answer.
“Papa is sure to have remembered me,” she said, “and surely I may spend what is my own.” And she actually appealed to the countess — was it not certain that the earl had remembered her in his will?
It was a curious question, and perhaps the very fact of its being asked proved that Laura was not quite so sure upon the point as she wished to be. Lady Oakburn, however, could tell her nothing. She did not know how the earl had left his affairs. That he had made a recent will, she believed; for in the prospect of a little child being born, he had remarked to her that he must settle his affairs in accordance with that prospect, and she thought he had done so; but she did not know any details, for the earl had not mentioned them to her.
Oh, it was sure to be all right, Laura remarked with her usual unconcern; and she bought every pretty black dress that attracted her eye.
“You will be godmother to the little baby, Lady Jane, when the time comes for christening him?” supplicated the countess with sensible hesitation. “He shall belong as much to you as to me.”
“Yes, willingly,” replied Jane. She did not hesitate. That little frail being in its sheltering cradle seemed to be the one link to life left by her father.
“And — if I may express a wish — will you not call him Francis?”
“Francis, certainly; Francis always. The Earls of Oakburn have mostly been John — but I don’t know that it need be a rule for us. We can name him Francis John: but he must be called Francis.”
On one of the days that intervened between the death and the burial, Jane borrowed the countess’s carriage — her own but one short year before — and went to Gloucester Terrace. Though feeling a conviction that Mrs. West would have sent to her had she heard news of Clarice, it did not seem right to Jane’s anxious mind that she should leave London again without personally inquiring about her. But when she reached the house she received a disappointment. Mrs. West and her children, she was told, were at the seaside.
As Jane stood in the doorway in hesitation — as is the manner of many when they meet with an unexpected check — a gentleman put his head out at one of the sitting-rooms, wondering perhaps who the visitor might be, and what the colloquy was about. He was a pleasant-looking man, short and stout, with a red face and bristling hair.
“It’s a good six weeks before my mistress will be at home, ma’am,” the servant was saying. “She only went ten days ago, and — But here’s my master,” she broke off as the gentleman came forward. “Perhaps he can tell more for certain than I can.”
Mr. West advanced to Lady Jane. His wife, Mrs. West, was out of town, he observed. Could he answer any questions for her, or convey to her any message? — he should be joining her at Ramsgate on the morrow.
Jane stepped into the sitting-room. He would probably know as much as his wife, was the reflection that crossed her mind. She mentioned the errand that she had come upon, and that she had been there some fifteen months before on the same.
“Oh yes, yes,” said Mr. West. “I remember my wife spoke of the circumstance to me — Lady Jane Chesney, I presume,” he added with a bow. “I am sorry to say that we have never heard anything of Miss Beauchamp. Only a short time before my wife left home for Ramsgate, she was talking of Miss Beauchamp, and wondering whether her friends had found her.”
Jane sighed heavily, although she had expected nothing else than disappointment. “No,” she said in a low tone, “we have not found her; we have not heard of her.”
“It is very extraordinary,” exclaimed Mr. West.
“It is more than that,” said Jane, “it is alarming. Until lately we cherished the hope that she had gone abroad with some family, but every month that glides on seems to set the hope more and more at nought. Thank you,” she added, moving to the door, and handing him a card. “That is my address in the country, where I reside. Should Mrs. West ever hear of her — though indeed the suggestion sounds a forlorn one — perhaps she will kindly forward me word of it there.”
“I am sure you may rely upon her doing so,” returned Mr. West. “And I only wish I had been able to give your ladyship better news now,” he heartily concluded.
Attending her, he stood on the pavement while she stepped into the carriage, and was driven away Jane sat in it strangely disheartened, considering that she had expected no better. A conviction had latterly been gaining upon her that Clarice was dead, and she seemed only to be able to think of her as being so.
But now there was one little item of news regarding Miss Beauchamp that Mrs. West had learnt since she last saw Lady Jane, and which she would certainly have imparted to her had she been at home, though she had not deemed it of sufficient importance to write to her; and perhaps had also abstained from doing so lest she might make mischief. Mr. West knew it, but he never supposed that it was not known to Lady Jane. After all, it was not much; and would have left the affair in mystery at least equal to that which at present enshrouded it.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
AN IMPROMPTU VISIT.
LADY OAKBURN sat in her chamber, in an easy-chair by the fire. She sat up for several hours a day now, although the nurse with her old-fashioned ideas protested it was “too soon.” Only Laura was with her, and she, Laura, held the little baby on her lap. Quite a mark of condescension for Laura, who w
as not fond of bringing herself into contact with things so troublesome as babies.
“I wish my own had lived,” she was saying to Lady Oakburn. “ It was the sweetest little girl ever seen. But I should not have nursed it, you know; I could not have subjected myself to the tie. I cannot think how you can have undertaken such a task! — you’ll never be able to go out.” —
Lady Oakburn smiled. She and Laura were very different women. “How long did your child live?” she inquired.
“Only a day and a half. Mr. Carlton saw from the first that it would not live; but he did not tell me, and I wondered why he had it baptized so quickly. When he asked me what the name should be, and said Mr. Lycett was downstairs and would baptize it, I inquired why he wanted it done, and he said carelessly it was as well, when infants were delicate. I thought nothing of the answer then, but he has told me since!”
“What did you name it?”
“Laura. Mr. Carlton wished it, and I like the name very well. What is Jane sitting in that strange way for? Like a statue!”
For Jane Chesney had now returned from her visit to Mrs. West, had made her way wearily up the stairs to the countess’s bedroom, and sunk down on a chair near the door. Disappointment was pressing heavily on her heart. As Laura turned to her in her wonder, Jane rose and came forward.
“I have had so fruitless a journey,” she said. “Mrs. West, the lady I went to call upon, was at Ramsgate, but I saw her husband. They have heard nothing whatever of Clarice. I am sure she will never he found now.” —