by Ellen Wood
Lady Laura had also taken the fever. But she had it so very slightly that she need not have remained in bed at all; and before the worst had come for Lucy, she was, comparatively speaking, well again. Laura was exacting; it was in her nature to be so; and Lady Jane had often to leave Lucy’s room for hers, when there was not the least necessity for it. Mr. Carlton was anxious and attentive, but he knew from the first there would be no danger, and he told Laura so. The result was that she called him “unfeeling.” An unmerited reproach. If ever man was anxious for the well-doing of his wife, that man was Mr. Carlton.
Frederick Grey went in once with his uncle to Lucy’s chamber, after the danger had set in. She did not know him; and he had only the pain of seeing her turn her head from side to side in delirium. If Lady Jane did not despair, he did; the sight almost unmanned him.
“Oh, merciful Heaven, save her!” he inwardly murmured. “Save her, if only in compassion to me!”
It was not alone the dreadful grief for Lucy; it was the self reproach that was haunting him. He assumed that the disorder must have been communicated to Lucy through him, and remorse took hold of him. What could he do? — what could he do? He would have given his own life willingly then, to save that of Lucy Chesney.
He went straight from the sick chamber to the telegraph office at Great Wennock. South Wennock had been in a state of resentment some time at having to go so far if it wanted to telegraph, and most certainly Frederick Grey now endorsed the popular feeling. Then he went back to South Wennock to Mr. Carlton’s. Jonathan advanced from his post in the hall to the open door: open that day that there might be neither knock nor ring.
“Do you know how she is now?” he asked, too anxiously excited to speak with any sort of ceremony.
“There’s no change, sir. Worse, if anything.”
He suppressed a groan as he leaned against the pillar. Chary of intruding into Mr. Carlton’s house, after that gentleman’s reception of him the first night of Lucy’s illness, he would not enter now. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote some words on it in pencil, folded, and gave it to Jonathan.
“Let Lady Jane have this when an opportunity arises. But don’t disturb the sick-room to give it her.”
The paper, however, soon found its way to Jane. She opened it in some curiosity.
“I have telegraphed for my father. He may not be able to do more than is being done, but it will at least be a satisfaction to me. He knows Lucy’s constitution, and there’s something in that. If I lose her, I lose all I care for in life.”
Words quiet and composed enough; scant indication did they give of the urgent, impassioned nature of the message gone up to Sir Stephen.
Jane approved of what he had done. Though she had little faith in further advice being availing, it would, as he said, be a satisfaction. She wished Lady Oakburn was as much within their reach as Sir Stephen Grey. If the worst happened to Lucy, the blow to her almost more than mother would be bitter.
Dangerous illness connected with our history was in another habitation of South Wennock that day. The little boy at Tupper’s cottage, of whom mention has been so frequently made, and who had created doubt and speculation in more minds than one, had become rapidly worse in the past week; and Mr. Carlton saw that he could not save him. Greatly worked as Mr. Carlton just then was out of doors, — having Lucy on his hands at home, not to speak of his exacting wife — he had not on this day been able to go to the cottage. Mr. Jefferson went up and brought back the report. The boy was no better, and the mother was excessively anxious.
“She did not like my calling,” observed the assistant-surgeon to Mr. Carlton. “She said she hoped you would be able to get up today, if only for a minute.”
Mr. Carlton gave no particular answer. He would go if he could, but did not think time would permit him; and he knew his going could do the child no good.
Mrs. Smith, to her own surprise, found she was to be favoured with a levee that afternoon. The little fellow, for whom a temporary bed by day had been made up in the parlour, was lying upon it asleep, and Mrs. Smith sat by him. The leg gave him a great deal of pain now, but it seemed easier than it had been in the morning; and in these easy intervals he was sure to sleep. The young woman, whom you saw drawing the child’s carriage not long ago, had taken up her abode in the house, by Mrs. Smith’s desire, to do the work, go on errands, anything that might be required; and there is always enough to do in illness. She was out now: having had leave to go and see her mother; and Mrs. Smith had fallen into a doze herself, when she was aroused by a sharp knock at the cottage door.
She went into the kitchen and opened it. There stood a little shrivelled woman in a black bonnet, with a thin, battered-looking sort of face. Mrs. Smith had seen her before, though she retained not the slightest recollection of her; and the reader has seen her also.
It was Widow Gould from Palace Street. She had been honoured by a call from Mrs. Pepperfly that morning, which led, as a matter of course, to a dish of gossip; and the result was, that the widow became acquainted for the first time with Mrs. Smith’s presence at South Wennock, and Mrs. Pepperfly’s various speculations arising therefrom. Consequently the widow — and there were few more curious widows living — thought she could not do better than go up to the cottage and claim acquaintance.
Mrs. Smith received her with some graciousness. The truth was, Mrs. Smith was growing rather out of conceit of the plan of secrecy she had adopted since her sojourn at South Wennock. Her only motive for it (if we except a natural reserve, which was habitual) had been that she thought she might find out more particulars of Mrs. Crane’s death as a stranger, if there was anything attending that death which needed concealment. Until she heard of the death, she had not the remotest idea of secrecy. But the plan had not appeared to answer, for Mrs. Smith could learn no more than she had learnt at the commencement of her sojourn, and she talked readily enough to the widow.
Upon hospitable thoughts intent, Mrs. Smith set out her tea-table, laying the tray in the kitchen, not to disturb the little sleeper in the parlour. True, it was barely three o’clock, rather an early hour for the meal; but it has become fashionable, you know, to take an early cup of tea. Before they had sat down to it, another visitor arrived. It was Judith Ford.
It appeared that Judith had been obliged to come to Cedar Lodge that afternoon upon some matter of business: and Lady Jane had told her to call in and ask after the little boy at the cottage. Jane had heard of his increasing illness; and she thought much of him even in the midst of her anxiety for Lucy.
“It’s like magic, your meeting here together!” exclaimed Mrs. Smith.
For there was always a feeling resting in the woman’s mind that all the circumstances connected with Mrs. Crane’s death had not been detailed to her; a constant hope that a chance word might reveal to her something or other hitherto unknown. Judith said she could stop for a quarter-of-an-hour, and Mrs. Smith handed her some tea in triumph, for the promised tea-drinking, when Judith was to spend an evening at the cottage, had not yet taken place. What with Lady Jane’s visit to London, and Lucy’s sojourn with them here, and one thing or another, Judith had not been able to find time for it.
It would have been strange had the conversation not turned upon that long-past tragedy. The Widow Gould, who loved talking better than anything else in the world, related her version of it, and the other widow listened with all her ears. Mrs. Gould, it must be remembered, in conjunction with the nurse, had never admitted that there could be truth in that vision of Mr. Carlton’s, touching the man on the stairs; it a little exasperated both of them to hear it spoken of, and she began declaiming against it now. An unnecessary precaution, since Mrs. Smith had never before heard of it. It appeared, however, to make a great impression upon her, now that she did hear it.
“Good Heavens! And do you mean to say that that man was not followed up?”
“There was no man to follow,” testily returned the Widow Gould, upon whom the past seven or ei
ght years had not sat lightly, and she looked at least sixty-six. “I’ve never liked Mr. Carlton since, I know that. It might have took away our characters, you know, ma’am.”
Mrs. Smith did not appear to know anything of the sort, or even to hear the delicate insinuation. She had risen from her seat to fill the teapot from the kettle on the fire; but she put it down again in haste.
“It was just the clue I wanted!” she exclaimed. “Just the clue. I thought it so strange that he had not been here; so strange, so strange! It was more unaccountable to me than all the rest.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the little shrivelled woman, staring at the evident excitement.
“I mean her husband. The man concealed on the stairs must have been her husband.”
“What, Mr. Crane?”
“Of course it was. He killed her. I feel as certain of it as if I had seen it done. How came that fat nurse, Pepperfly, not to tell me this?”
“Mother Pepperfly don’t believe in it,” said Mrs. Gould. “She’s as certain as I am, that no man was there.”
“You might have told me this,” resumed Mrs. Smith, turning to Judith. “Why, it throws more light upon the subject than all the rest put together.”
“I have not had much opportunity of telling you anything,” answered Judith, who had sat in her usual silent fashion, sipping her tea and listening to the other two. “But I don’t believe it, either, for the matter of that.”
“Believe what?”
“That any man was concealed on the stairs.”
“But — I can’t understand,” cried Mrs. Smith. “Did Mr. Carlton not see one there?”
“He fancied he did at the moment. But he came to the conclusion afterwards that the moonlight had deceived him.”
“And it was never followed up?” —
“Oh dear, yes,” said Judith. “The police sought for the man for a long while, and could never find him.”
“And they came to think at last, ma’am — as everybody else of sense had thought at the time — that there wasn’t any man there,” put in the little widow.
“Then I can tell them to the contrary,” was Mrs. Smith’s emphatic rejoinder. “That man was poor Mrs. Crane’s husband. I happen to know as much.”
Little Mrs. Gould was startled at the words. Judith put down the bread and butter she was about to convey to her mouth, and gazed in astonishment.
“Yes,” continued Mrs. Smith, “it must have been him. I know — I feel that it was him. He was at South Wennock I know so much as that.”
“You know this?” continued the other two breathlessly.
“I do. I know that Mrs. Crane’s husband was at South Wennock.”
“And where is he now, ma’am?” asked the widow.
“Ah, where indeed!” was the answer, given angrily. “I have never since heard of him in all these years. I came down here now to find out what I could about him — and about her.”
“It’s what old Pepperfly told me this morning, ma’am; she said she was sure you hadn’t come for anything else. I know what I should have done in your place,” added the widow. “I should have declared myself to the police the minute I came, and got them to rake up the affair again. You see there was nobody here belonging to the poor lady at the time, and it made the police careless over it — leastways, many folks have held that opinion. All I can say is, that if there was any Mr. Crane on the stairs that night, he must have stole in down the drawing-room chimbly, for he never come in straightforwardly at the door.”
- “There’s time enough yet to declare my business to the police,” was Mrs. Smith’s answer. “I have preferred to remain quiet, and feel my way. Not but that one or two have suspected who I was. Judith, here, for one; she remembered me at once.”
“And Mother Pepperfly for another,” remarked the widow, handing up her cup for some more tea.
“No, she did not; at first she did not recollect me at all,” said Mrs. Smith, as she filled it. “I think Mr. Carlton suspects who I am.”
Judith lifted her eyes. “Why do you think so?”
“Because he asked so many questions when I first came here — who I was, and what I was, and all the rest of it; I believe he’d have gone on asking till now if I had not put him down. And one day I caught him looking curiously into my drawers; he said he was searching for rag for my child’s knee, but I have always thought he was looking to see what he could find.”
“Why! Mr. Carlton met you that time at the station at Great Wennock!” exclaimed Mrs. Gould, the event recurring to her memory. “I remember it came out at the inquest.”
“Was it Mr. Carlton I met there?” resumed Mrs. Smith, after a pause, during which she had cast her thoughts back to the long-past incident. “I did not recognize him again. It was almost dark at the time, I remember. But perhaps his eyes were keener than mine. At any rate, I feel sure he knows who I am. Why else should he put all those questions to me?”
“It’s only natural to him to ask them,” observed the Widow Gould. “He’d like it to be brought to light as well as the rest of us.”
“Of course he would,” was Mrs. Smith’s acquiescent answer. “Once or twice I have been upon the point of talking to him about it, but I thought I’d wait; I thought I’d wait.”
She spoke this in a dreamy sort of way. Judith rose and put back her chair. She could not stay long on that day of anxiety, and she did not care to ask Mrs. Smith questions in the presence of the other.
“I say,” broke in that other, “how long did that little mite of an infant live? Pepperfly says it’s dead.”
“Not very long,” replied Mrs. Smith. “It wasn’t to be expected that it would. I wish you could stay, Judith.”
“I wish I could,” was Judith’s answer. “It’s impossible to-day. There’s nothing can be done for Lady Lucy, poor thing, but one must be in the house.”
“Report says, Judy, that Lady Laura — My goodness! who’s coming now?”
The Widow Gould’s abrupt remark was caused by the dashing up to the gate of some sort of vehicle. They crowded to the window to ascertain what it could be.
It was only a baker’s cart. And seated in state beside the driver was Mrs. Pepperfly.
It appeared that her duties at Mrs. Knagg’s were over, through that lady’s being, as Mrs. Pepperfly expressed it, on her legs again, and she had left her the previous day. Consequently she was at leisure to make calls upon her circle of friends. It struck her that she could not do better than devote the afternoon and evening to her new acquaintance in Blister Lane, where she should be sure of enjoying a good tea, and might happen to drop upon something nice for supper — pickled pork, or some other dainty; not to reckon the chance of being invited to take a bed. The friendly baker had accommodated her with a lift in his cart. How he had contrived to get her up, he hardly knew; still less how he should get her down again. While this was being accomplished, the Widow Gould running out to assist in the process, the little boy awoke and cried aloud. Altogether, what with one distraction and another, Judith found it a good opportunity for slipping away.
She was half-way down the Rise, when she met Mr. Carlton driving up in his open carriage. He was on his way to pay a visit at Tupper’s cottage.
CHAPTER XIII.
SIR STEPHEN’S VISIT.
DOWN thundered Sir Stephen Grey as fast as the express train could take him. The message had disturbed him in no measured degree. Lucy Chesney given over! At Great Wennock he found his son waiting with a fleet horse and gig. A minute’s explanation, and they were skimming along the smooth road.
“Any change since you telegraphed, Frederick?”
“None for the better, sir.”
There was an interval of silence.
“My son, what a pace you are driving at? Take care what you are about.”
“The horse is a sure one, father. And she is lying between life and death.”
Sir Stephen said no more. As the gig reached South Wennock, and dashed through it
on its way to Mr. Carlton’s, the inhabitants flocked to their doors and windows. What could possess young Frederick Grey, that he was driving in that mad fashion? But, as their eyes fell on his companion, they recognized him, and comprehended. Sir Stephen Grey, the great physician, brought down from London in that haste? Then Lady Lucy Chesney must indeed be dying.
Mr. Carlton happened to be at home when the gig drew up. He had just returned from that visit to Tupper’s cottage. At the first moment he did not recognize his visitor. But he did so when he met him in the hall.
“Sir Stephen Grey?” he exclaimed, his manner cold, his tones bearing marked surprise. In that first moment he scarcely understood how or why Sir Stephen had arrived.
“How d’ye do, how d’ye do, Carlton?” unceremoniously spoke Sir Stephen in his haste, as he brushed past him. “Which room is she lying in?”
Whether opposition was or was not in the surgeon’s mind, he did not offer it. Indeed there was no time for it, for Sir Stephen had gone quickly up the stairs. For one thing, Mr. Carlton was preoccupied, sundry little trifles at Tupper’s cottage having considerably put him out. He understood the case now: Frederick Grey — or perhaps Mr. John Grey — had telegraphed to Sir Stephen on Lucy’s account. Mr. Carlton had no objection to Sir Stephen’s seeing her; but he asked himself in what way Sir Stephen’s skill was better than theirs, that he need have been summoned; and he resented its having been done without consulting him.
He looked out at the front door, and saw Frederick Grey driving away in the gig, quietly now. Mr. Carlton sent after him a scornful word: he disliked him as much as he had done in the days gone by.
Sir Stephen was already at his post in Lucy’s chamber, Lady Jane alone its other inmate. Mr. Carlton went in once, but Sir Stephen put his finger on his lip to enjoin silence. A few words passed between them in the lowest whisper, having reference to the case; its past symptoms and treatment; and the surgeon stole away again.
For three long hours Stephen Grey remained in the chamber, never quitting it; three long hours, and every moment of those hours might be that of death. Lady Jane caused a sandwich to be brought to the door and a glass of wine, and he took the refreshment standing. And the time wore on.