by Ellen Wood
“You ask me what has raked them up! Ask yourself, Mr. Carlton. You know too well.”
“By Heaven, I do not! I have no more notion what you mean than that!” He raised a wine-glass as he spoke, and bringing it down again too fiercely, the fragments were scattered over the mahogany table.
The outburst half frightened Laura. Mr. Carlton’s temper was impassive as his face, and she had never witnessed such from him before. Perhaps he was surprised at himself. But he had gone home full of inward trouble, and the attack, so uncalled for, was more than he could patiently bear.
“If you wish me to understand you, Laura, so as to be able to give you any answer, you must be more explanatory,” he said, resuming his ordinary tones of calmness.
Lady Laura’s lips quivered, and she leaned over the table, speaking in a whisper, low as the unsatisfactory topic deserved.
“In that cottage of Tupper’s on the Rise, a woman and a child are living. The child is yours!”
An extraordinary change, possibly caused by surprise at the accusation, possibly by indignation, passed over the aspect of Mr. Carlton. His face grew livid, his white lips parted. Laura noted all.
“It tells home, does it!” she exclaimed in a tone of bitter scorn. “I knew your conscience would accuse you. What have I done, I ask, that this shameless woman should be brought hither to insult me? Could you not have kept her where she came from? Must you bring her here, and parade her in my very presence?”
Mr. Carlton wiped the moisture from his face and recalled his senses, which seemed to have been scattered. He looked at his wife in very amazement.
“Suspect that woman of — You are a fool, Laura, if you are not mad. I beg your pardon, but it must be one of the two. Until this day, when I was called in to attend the child, the woman was an utter stranger to me. Why, she looks old enough to be my mother! What are you thinking of?”
Lady Laura was thinking of a great many things, and they were not pleasant ones. Nevertheless her husband spoke so earnestly, so truthfully, that she was somewhat staggered in spite of her exasperation.
“It will come, next, that I must not visit a patient when called out to one,” he proceeded severely. “You speak of shame, Laura, but I do not think it is I who ought to feel it. These absurd delusions bring yourself shame, but not me. I know nothing of the woman and her child. I solemnly declare to you that until last night I did not know Tupper’s cottage was occupied, or that such people existed.”
“Who summoned you to them?” inquired Laura, no relenting whatever in her words and aspect.
“Pepperfly, the nurse. I met the old woman at the gate here last night, as I was coming home from that dinner. She said a stranger with a sick child had come to Tupper’s cottage, and would I go up at my leisure, and see it. If you will take the trouble to walk there, and inquire, you will find my statement correct: the boy has a white swelling in the knee.”
“I have been,” she replied with sullen composure.
Mr. Carlton gave a start of anger. “Very well, my lady; if you think it well to dodge my footsteps amongst my patients, you must do so. I don’t know how I can prevent it. But if you hear nothing worse than that woman has to tell you, you won’t hurt.”
“Mr. Carlton! keep within the bounds of truth, if you please. When did I ever dodge your footsteps?”
“It seems like it, at any rate.”
“No; my passing that cottage was an accident. I was out with Jane to-day, and she had to go down Blister Lane.”
“What has given rise to this suspicion?” demanded Mr. Carlton, feeling completely in the dark. “The very appearance of the woman might have shown you its absurdity. You must have gone to sleep and dreamt it.”
Laura was in cruel perplexity of mind. Were her suspicions right, or were they wrong? She looked ready to break a glass on her own score, and she dropped her voice again and leaned towards Mr. Carlton.
“If it be as you say, why should there be so extraordinary a likeness between you and the child?”
“A likeness between me and the child!” he echoed in genuine surprise. “There’s none in the world, none whatever. How can you so draw upon your flighty imagination?”
“There never was, I believe, so great a one in the world,” was Laura’s answer. “Every feature is similar, except the eyes. That is not all. Your ears are a peculiar shape, unlike any one’s I ever saw; so are that child’s. The very feather here,” touching the parting of her own hair in front, “the wave of the flaxen hair: it is all you in miniature.”
Now Mr. Carlton had failed to observe any likeness to himself; the thought had not crossed his mind. It was only natural, therefore, that he should disbelieve in the existence of any, and he believed his wife was asserting it, in her jealousy, without foundation.
“This is very absurd, Laura! I had hoped these fancies were done with.”
“Why should he bear your name — Lewis?” proceeded Lady Laura.
“He does not bear it,” replied Mr. Carlton, looking at her in further surprise.
“He does! Where is the use of your denying facts?” she angrily demanded.
“I asked the boy’s name this afternoon, and his mother told me it was George. If he bears any other, all I can say, is, I do not know it. They did not mention another to me.”
“I heard the woman speak to him as Lewis. The boy told me himself at the gate that his name was Lewis,” reiterated Laura. “You gave him that toy!”
“I know I did. I have no children of my own; but I love children, and I often give a plaything to my little patients. Is there any harm in it?”
“Lewis is an uncommon name,” she persistently resumed, fearing she was getting the worst of the argument. “And the likeness is there!”
“Upon my word, Laura, this is very absurd! If people call their children Lewis, I cannot help it. As to the likeness — pray did Lady Jane see this astounding likeness?” he broke off to ask.
“She did not say so.”
“No, no. I believe you have drawn solely on your own imagination for this fancy, and that nothing of the sort exists. I can only assure you, and with truth, that I failed to observe it, as I hardly should have failed had it been there. The boy was a stranger to me until this day.”
Laura replied not. She had nearly arrived at the conclusion that she had made a very ridiculous mistake. Mr. Carlton rose and went over to her.
“Understand me, Laura,” he said in a serious and impressive tone, but one of friendly conciliation. “Whether the resemblance exists or not, it is equally unimportant to you and to me. I tell you that I was unconscious of the existence of these people until now. I tell you that, so far as I believe and know, the woman is a stranger to me. I have never known her in any way whatever; and I swear that I speak the truth, by the ties that exist between you and me!”
He held out his hand, and after a moment’s struggle with herself — not caused so much by the point at issue, for she was now pretty well convinced that likeness and name must be accidental, as by the remembrance of certain former grievances which Mr. Carlton had not been able so triumphantly to clear up — she gave him hers. Mr. Carlton stooped and kissed her, and she turned her face to him and burst into tears.
“If I am suspicious, you hare made me so, Lewis. You should never have tried me.”
“The trials have been chiefly of your own making,” he whispered, “but we will not revert to the past. But now — am I to go on attending this child, or am I not, Laura? It shall be as you please; it is nothing to me one way or the other. If you wish me not to do so, I’ll hand the case over to Grey.”
“Nonsense,” responded Lady Laura.
CHAPTER VIII.
RUNNING FOR THE OINTMENT.
THE reply, “nonsense,” of Lady Laura to Mr. Carlton’s question was taken by that gentleman as an intimation that he was to go on with the case. And accordingly on the afternoon of the following day, he again went up to Tupper’s cottage. Mrs. Smith had the boy on her lap at t
he table, the soldiers before him in battle array.
“I have forgotten half my errand,” the surgeon exclaimed, as he threw himself in a chair, after speaking with her and the boy. “I intended to bring up a box of ointment and I have left it behind me.”
“Is it of consequence, sir?”
“Yes, it is. I wanted to apply some to his knee myself. I’m dead tired, for I have been on foot all day, running about. Would it be too much to ask you to step down to my house for it? It is not far. I’ll look at his leg in the meantime.”
Mrs. Smith, paused, hesitated, and then said she would go. Mr. Carlton told her what to ask for: a small box done up in white paper, standing near the scales in the surgery. As she departed, he untied the linen round the child’s knee, gave a cursory glance at it, and tied it up again.
“What’s your name, my boy?”
“Lewis,” said the child.
“I thought your mother told me yesterday it was George?”
“So it is George. It’s Lewis George. Mother used to call me Lewis always, but she calls me George sometimes since we came here. Will you let me go to my soldiers?”
“Presently. Is your father dead?”
“He died before we came here; he died in Scotland. My black things are worn for him. Mr. Carlton, will that soldier drum always?”
“I think so,” said Mr. Carlton. “George, my little man, you want some fresh air, and I shall put you outside in your chair until your mother returns.”
Mr. Carlton did so. He not only put the boy in his chair, but he tied him in with a towel he espied; and, carrying boy, chair, and soldiers, he placed them against the cottage wall outside.
“Why do you tie me in, sir?” —
“That you may not get down and run about.”
“I won’t do that. Since my leg was bad, I don’t like running.”
Mr. Carlton made no reply. He went in, beyond view of the boy, and there he began a series of extraordinary manoeuvres. Upstairs and down, upstairs first, he went peeping about, now into this box, now into that; now into this drawer, now into that cupboard. One small box baffled him, for it was locked and double locked, and he thrust it back into its receptacle, for he had nothing to force it with, though he had tried his penknife. What was he hunting for?
Leaving every thing in its place, so that no trace of the search might be found, he went down to the kitchen again, threw open a drawer, and turned over its contents. An old envelope he clutched eagerly; it contained a prescription, and nothing else, but that he did not know. He was about to dive into its folds, when he became conscious that he was not alone. Mrs. Smith stood in the doorway, watching him with all her eyes. What on earth had brought her back so quickly, was Mr. Carlton’s thought.
He dropped the envelope with a quick motion, recollected himself, and continued to look in the drawer, his manner cool and collected. “I am searching for some rag,” said he, turning to her.
“Rag!” repeated Mrs. Smith, who did not appear particularly pleased at his off-hand proceedings. “I don’t keep rag in those drawers. You might have waited, sir, I think, till I came home.”
“You were so long,” replied Mr. Carlton. “I have not time to stop.”
“Then, sir, I don’t know what you’d call short,” returned Mrs. Smith. “I ran all the way there and back.”
Mr. Carlton took the ointment from her, repeated his request for some rag, brought the boy in, and proceeded to attend to his knee. He scanned the child’s features from time to time, but could detect nothing of the resemblance spoken of by his wife. He completely made his peace with Mrs. Smith before he departed, told her laughingly always to have linen at hand ready for him, and then he should not want to dive into her hiding-places.
It was not, however, quite the truth that Mrs. Smith had run all the way back. In point of fact she had not come straight back, but had taken a short detour out of her way. She ran there, received the ointment without delay, and set off to run back again. But middle-aged ladies cannot run very far up a hill, be it ever so gentle a one, and Mrs. Smith slackened her pace. Just before she got to Blister Lane she overtook Judith, Lady Jane’s maid, and joined her, walking with her past the lane, for Judith was in a hurry and could not stop to talk. Mrs. Smith reminded her of her promise to come and partake of tea; but Judith said she could not do so for a day or two; she was busy, getting her lady’s autumn dresses in order.
“It’s not autumn weather yet,” remarked Mrs. Smith. “It’s as hot as summer.”
“But nobody knows how soon it may change, and my lady likes to have her things ready,” was Judith’s answer. “I’ll be sure to come as soon as I can. I shall like to come. How’s the little boy?”
“He’s middling. I have had Mr. Carlton to him. He is at the cottage now. I have been to his house for this salve which he left behind him. I say, he’s a curious man, isn’t he?”
“Curious?” repeated Judith, not understanding how to take the remark.
“Curious in regard to one’s business. He asked so many questions of me; wanting to know where we came from, and where we had lived, and where the boy was born; I don’t know what he didn’t ask. But I think he is clever. He seems thoroughly to understand the case. And he’s very kind.”
“He is considered very clever,” said Judith. “His patients like him.”
Lady Jane’s gate was reached. It was only a little higher up than Blister Lane, on the opposite side of the way, and Mrs. Smith said good afternoon, and ran back again. Lady Jane had seen the woman at the gate, and spoke of her to Judith when the girl entered. To tell the truth, the likeness Jane had detected in the little child to her sister Clarice, had been haunting her mind since the previous day, more than she would have cared to tell.
“So you know that person, Judith?”
“I don’t know much of her, my lady. I have spoken to her once or twice in passing the cottage. She was talking of her little boy. She has had Mr. Carlton to him.”
“Is that her own child?” abruptly asked Lady Jane, after a pause. “She told me it was, but I almost doubt it. For one thing, she seems too old to have so young a child.”
“Well, my lady, and so do I doubt it,” cried Judith. “But I don’t know anything certain.”
“The boy bears so remarkable a likeness to — to — some one I know—”
“My lady, there never was such a likeness seen,” eagerly interposed Judith. “It struck me the first moment I saw him.”
“You!” rejoined Lady Jane; “struck you! Why, how did you know her? When did you see her? I spoke of my sister.”
Judith stood, dumb.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, my lady; I misunderstood you.”
“I had another sister of whom you have not heard, Judith. That little boy’s eyes are so exactly like hers that they seem to be ever before me. What likeness did you speak of?”
“Oh, my lady, it’s not worth troubling you with. It was just a fancy of mine that the boy’s face was like somebody’s I know: not a lady’s.”
“Not a lady’s?”
“A man’s face; not a lady’s.”
“Ah, yes. Of course you could not have known my sister. She never was at South Wennock.”
Judith lingered as if she had something she would like to say, and looked hard at Lady Jane; but she turned away without speaking. She wondered never to have heard that there was another sister: but the Chesneys, one and all, had kept the name from their households. In fact, considering the half-publicity that had been given to the affair when the services of the police were called in by Lord Oakburn in the search after his lost daughter, it had been kept wonderfully secret. But the likeness the child bore to Clarice continued to trouble the mind of Lady Jane.
And the likeness — that other likeness — festered in the heart of Mr. Carlton’s wife. In spite of her apparent satisfaction at the time of their explanation, the bitter suspicion sprang up again within her with a force that threatened mischief. There is no passion in t
his wide world so difficult to eradicate as jealousy.
CHAPTER IX.
AN ITEM OF NEWS.
LITTLE heirs are precious things, especially if they happen to be on the peerage roll of this aristocratic realm. Perhaps there was not an individual in the land more valued by those about him than was the young Lord Oakburn; and when, after his sojourn at Seaford, he seemed to languish rather than revive, his mother’s fears were up in arms.
The young gentleman had caught cold soon after they returned to London, just as other boys will catch it. Complete master of Pompey, he had walked deliberately into a pond with his clothes on, in spite of that faithful retainer’s efforts to prevent him, and the result was a slight attack of sore throat. It was magnified into a visitation of bronchitis, and Sir Stephen Grey was sent for. He soon recovered, but the disorder left him a little languid, and the countess said she must take him out again. She would take him to some of the spas of Germany, perhaps from thence to the South of France; possibly keep him abroad for the winter or part of it.
“It’s not in the least necessary,” said Sir Stephen.
Lady Oakburn thought it was, and decided to go. But while she was hesitating what place to choose, a letter arrived from her brother, the Reverend Mr. Lethwait, who held a continental chaplaincy, and in his letter he happened to speak of the lovely climate of the place, its healing virtues.
It was the turning point of the balance. If there had been a remnant of indecision in Lady Oakburn’s mind, whether she should go or not, whether the expedition was really necessary, this ended it; and orders for her departure were issued to her household forthwith.
Lucy rebelled. Lucy Chesney actually rebelled. Not against the young earl’s exile from England, but against her own. She was to be married the following spring: and, as every one knew, it would take from this time to that to prepare the trousseau and paraphernalia in general. Frederick Grey stepped in to the rescue; he knew nothing about the clothes and the paraphernalia; that was not in his department; but he did protest that Lady Oakburn must not be so cruel as to take Lucy away from England and from him.