by Ellen Wood
“You had better make it known abroad that this is the same child, Mr. Carlton; it may eventually lead to a discovery. Perhaps Mrs. Smith will tell you more than she has told me. She says Mrs. Crane came to South Wennock to meet her husband; and I should think that very likely. Remember the fellow you saw hidden on the stairs!”
Sir Stephen had no need to say “Remember the fellow.” That fellow was in Mr. Carlton’s mind all too often for its own peace.
CHAPTER XIV.
STOLEN MOMENTS.
Lucy CHESNEY was going on to convalescence — as indeed was South Wennock generally. In less than a week after Sir Stephen’s visit Lucy was able to leave her bed for a sofa.
Mr. Frederick Grey considered himself a very ill-used man. Never, except that one solitary time when she lay in imminent danger and did not know him, had he been admitted to see Lucy. But upon hearing from his Uncle John that she was sitting up, he went down forthwith to Mr. Carlton’s.
Admitted by Jonathan, asking leave or licence of no one, he walked straight upstairs and knocked at Lucy’s chamber. “Come in,” answered Lucy’s voice, and he went in and found her alone, lying, on the sofa near the fire, dressed, and wrapped round with a silken coverlet.
The red flush flew into her white cheeks; but when the first moment of surprise was over, she held out her hand in token of welcome. Not a word was spoken by either. He passed his arm underneath the pillow on which she was lying and raised it up, bringing her fair young face closer to his own.
“Lucy, my whole life will be one of thankfulness!”
“Did you think I should die?”
“Yes, my darling, I did. I may tell you so now that all danger is over. Lucy, it must not be long before you are mine; I cannot risk another trial, such as this has been.”
“Had I been yours ever so you could not have guarded me from it,” was her answer.
“Not from the illness; I am aware of that. But to know that you were ill — ill unto death, and not to be allowed to be with you — there was my trial. I do not care to tell you how badly I bore it; how I paced before the house, hour after hour, and night after night, watching its walls. Illness may come to you as my wife, Lucy, but it will be my right to tend you then; my right above any one’s in the world. Sisters, nurses, friends — what are they compared with me?”
How delightful it was to lie there! In the sweet languor of convalescence, pressed to that manly heart, in those protecting arms! It was almost worth having been ill for. She looked up into his face with a tender smile.
“I shall always say you saved me, Frederick.”
“I saved you! How?”
“By sending for Sir Stephen. Jane declares that soon after he entered, I seemed to grow calmer. He gave me something, a powder, she says, and changed the lotion for my head.”
“Lucy, dear, he did nothing for you that my Uncle John and Mr. Carlton were not doing. The disorder was upon the turn when he arrived.”
“I cannot part with my opinion; neither will Jane. It is pleasant to me to think that I owe my life to your father; or rather to you for having sent for him here.”
“Keep the opinion, then,” he whispered. “And take one truth to your heart, love — that you shall owe a very great portion of your future life’s happiness to me. I will strive to make it, by God’s blessing.”
“Don’t you think you have held me up long enough?” she presently said.
“Does it tire you? or hurt you?”
“Oh no. But you will be tired.”
He raised his own face for a moment, that he might look into her eyes.
“Tired, did you say? I wish I might hold you here long enough to become tired.”
Her gaze fell beneath the saucy glance that danced in his, and he bent his face to kiss away the blushes on her cheek. When people get into mischief, you know, they are nearly sure to be caught. There was a brisk knock at the door, and Mr. Carlton stood before them. A far brighter blush rose then, and she would have shrunk in maidenly timidity from the arms that encircled her.
But Frederick Grey altogether declined to let her do so. He kept her where she was, held to him, and raised his head with calm self-possession.
“What do you do here, Mr. Carlton?”
“Do!” returned Mr. Carlton. “It is my own house.”
“Your own house, of course. But this is Lady Lucy’s room.”
It seemed quite impossible for those two to meet without something unpleasant taking place between them, some little interchange of compliments indicative of incipient warfare. Frederick Grey gently laid Lucy down, and stood upright by her side, his tall form drawn to its full height.
“As my sister-in-law’s medical attendant, and as her guardian so long as she is under my roof, perhaps you will allow me to inquire what you do here,” retorted Mr. Carlton, turning the tables. “I speak in her behalf when I say that in my opinion it is scarcely seemly behaviour on your part.”
“You will allow me to be the judge of that,” coolly returned the young man. “As my future wife, none can have a greater interest than I, in guarding her from all danger.”
He drew a chair nearer to the sofa as he spoke, and sat down; an intimation that he entertained no intention of quitting the room. Lucy, her face still crimson, spoke.
“Did you want anything, Mr. Carlton?”
“I came to bring these powders, Lucy,” was his reply, as he laid two small white papers on the table by her side. “You complained of heartburn this morning: take one in a wine-glass of water now, and the second later in the day; they will relieve you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “I will take it presently.”
Judith was in the room then, having entered it in time to hear what passed. Mr. Carlton left, not choosing probably to make further demur to the presence of the intrusive guest, lest it might disturb Lucy; and Frederick Grey took up the powders and examined them.
“Have you suffered from heartburn, Lucy?”
“I think so. I had a hot, disagreeable sensation in my throat this morning, and Mr. Carlton said it was heartburn. I never had it before.”
He wetted his finger, and tasted the powder. Then he folded tip the papers and handed them to Judith.
“Put these away, Judith. They will do Lady Lucy no good.”
“Am I not to take them?” inquired Lucy.
“No. I will send you a better remedy than that.
Judith received the powders from him very carefully, as if she feared they might bite her, and left the room with them, meeting Lady Jane at the door, who was coming into it. Frederick laughed, and made the best excuse he could for being there without permission.
When he was leaving the house, half-an-hour later, Mr. Carlton came forth, and met him face to face on the stairs.
“A moment, Mr. Frederick Grey, if you please. It may be well that you and I should come to an understanding. You appear to assume that you may do just as you please with me: you enter my house, you interfere in my affairs: this shall not be.”
“The Ladies Chesney are temporary inmates of your house, and my visits are to them,” was the answer. “I have not troubled it much.”
“I must request you to trouble it less for the future. I am not accustomed to these underhand proceedings, and I don’t like them.”
“Underhand!” exclaimed Frederick Grey in surprise.
“I don’t choose that my patients should be tampered with. When I become incapable of taking care of them, it will be time enough for others to interfere. It was a very unwarrantable liberty, that visit of Sir Stephen Grey’s to the sick boy at Tupper’s cottage.” Frederick quite laughed. “You must ask Mrs. Smith to settle that with you. She sent for Sir Stephen, and I walked up with him. I did no more. I did not see the boy. As to interfering with you, Mr. Carlton, I am not conscious of having done so. I have desired Lady Lucy not to take those powders you brought her just now; so far I certainly have interfered. But you should remember in what relation she stands to me.”
“Because I don’t think they are the best remedy for heartburn. I told her I would send her something else.”
“You are cool, sir,” returned Mr. Carlton, all his old hatred of Frederick Grey rising to fever heat. And in point of fact there was a particularly cool, indifferent tone pervading Frederick Grey’s behaviour towards the surgeon, which might easily be discerned and was anything but pleasant. “You and I will have a long account to settle some day.”
“It may be as well, perhaps, that we never come to the settlement,” was the answer. “I do not force it on: always remember that, Mr. Carlton; I do not force it on. There has been no good feeling between you and me for years, as you are aware; but that is no reason why we should quarrel every time we meet. I have had no intention of offending you in thus intruding into your house — and I acknowledge that it is an intrusion, antagonistic to each other as you and I are, and if you will so far allow me I would beg you in courtesy to pardon me under the circumstances. I will try and not enter it again. In a day or two I expect the ladies will have left it for their own home.”
He made a movement to pass as he concluded; Mr. Carlton did not oppose it, and the fray ended. But no sooner had both disappeared than Judith emerged from a store-closet hard by, in which she had been an unwilling prisoner. She came out with a pot of jam in her hand, and a frightened face: anything like quarrelling was sure to startle Judith.
Lady Laura Carlton was still in her room, making believe to be yet an invalid. She liked the indulgence of recovery; the being petted with attentions and fed with good things, jellies and wines and dainty messes. She would rise towards midday, cause herself to be becomingly attired, enter her dressing-room, and remain there for the rest of the day. Lady Jane had to divide her time pretty equally between Laura and Lucy, now that Lucy was getting well, for Laura was jealous and exacting.
Laura’s frame of mind did not altogether tend to advance perfect recovery; at least, not if repose were essential to it. That suspicion of hers, connecting her husband with the inmates of Tupper’s cottage, had only grown the stronger in the condemned seclusion of the last week or two. On Laura Carlton’s heart there was an everburning sense of deep humiliation. Broken allegiance to a man’s marriage vows does reflect its humiliation on the wife; and Laura deeply felt its sting. Unduly conscious of her birth and title, of the place she held amidst the nobodies of the provincial town, remembering how impassioned had been her love for Mr. Carlton, how entirely in the early days of her wedded life she had given this love up to him, it cannot be wondered that she felt the defalcation to her heart’s core. Jealousy, rage, a thirst for redress, were ever at battle within her. She longed to fling back the shame on Mr. Carlton: that is, to bring him to self-humiliation. She wished to find something tangible of which to accuse him; proofs that he could neither ignore nor dispute. She cherished a vision of seeing him at her feet, suing for pardon, for reconciliation, abjectly, his head in the dust: or else that she would take a high ground, and say, I leave you, I am your wife no longer.
Not yet had Lady Jane spoken to Mr. Carlton on the subject of Clarice, or asked him whether he could or could not give her any information about the past. The surgeon’s time had been so fully occupied, and her own anxiety for Lucy so great, that not a moment’s opportunity had presented itself since Jane’s sojourn in the house. But Jane was seeking one now. Perfect courtesy — it may indeed be said cordiality — had existed between them during Jane’s stay, though from the causes mentioned they had met but little. And when they did meet, it had been chiefly in Lucy’s sick-room. But the time was coming on, and events were thickening.
CHAPTER. XV.
ANOTHER SHOCK FOR MR. CARLTON.
LADY LAURA sat before her dressing-room fire, leaning back in an easy-chair, her feet on a low velvet ottoman to catch the warmth of the blaze. Her elbows rested on the arms of the chair, the tips of her fingers were pressed together, and her eyes were bent in thought. In point of fact the Lady Laura was buried deeply in her wrongs, real and imaginary: as was the case now three parts of her time. It was the day mentioned in the last chapter, when Mr. Frederick Grey intruded into Lucy’s room; a short time after that agreeable moment in Judith’s life when she had emerged from the closet, jampot in hand.
Seated at the window, bearing Laura company, was Lady Jane. She was knitting a pair of the sort of woollen mittens that she used to knit for her father. These were for Mr. Carlton. Winter weather had come on, and he had complained one day in Jane’s hearing of cold at his wrists when he had to go out at night. Jane immediately offered to knit him a pair of these soft woollen things, and had set to work upon them.
Not to Laura, any more than to Mr. Carlton, had Jane spoken of Clarice. Laura’s impatience during her sickness had prevented this. She never seemed in a frame of mind to hear anything serious. To-day, however, Laura was at least outwardly calm; and Jane seized upon the opportunity as she sat there. She began by telling her of the last interview with Mrs. West, and Laura listened with apathy enough, as if it were no concern of hers, until aroused by the particulars that led Mrs. West to infer that Clarice must have married.
“Married!” exclaimed Laura, turning her head quickly to her sister.
“By what Mrs. West said — as I have now repeated to you — I think there can be no doubt of it. Indeed, Clarice admitted it was so when the servant met her.”
“Oh, well, I think all that is proof enough,” remarked Laura, “So it seems I was not the only one of the family to consult my own inclination — dreadful conduct as you and papa thought it in me! And pray, Jane, who was the gentleman?”
“About that there is less certainty,” said Jane. “Circumstances point strongly — at least in my opinion — to its having been a brother of Mr. West’s, a young medical man. He was staying there, was very intimate with Clarice, and in the following winter embarked for India. Mrs. West does not think this. She argues that Mr. Tom West was open-hearted, was his own master, and would have married Clarice openly had he married her at all. She feels certain that they did not sail together, however it may have been. But it appears to me that Clarice could not have been in a condition of health to embark, and would probably follow him later.”
“Nothing more likely. But why — being safely married — should she not have told us? Had she feared interference to prevent it, she could not have feared interference to separate them when it was done.”
“True,” said Lady Jane. “I have pondered it all over until I am ill and weary. At all events, this is a little clue to work upon. And now I must tell you who may possibly help us in it — Mr. Carlton.”
“How should he help?” asked Laura in surprise. “I have never spoken to him of Clarice. To confess that a sister went out as a governess and was lost, was not pleasant — and you have heard me say this before. I have never opened my lips about Clarice to Mr. Carlton. My first silence has induced my continued silence, if you can understand that.”
Jane explained. In the old days Mr. Carlton was intimate at Mrs. West’s: was a friend of Tom West’s, of a Mr. Crane, and of other young medical men who visited there. “It is just possible Mr. Carlton might have known something of the marriage, and of their subsequent movements,” she concluded. Laura did not acquiesce.
“Really, Jane, there seems very little use in bringing up this uncertainty about Clarice,” she fretfully exclaimed. “As I say, it does not add to the dignity of the Chesneys.”
“I will not rest, now, until I have found out Clarice — if she is to be found,” replied Jane in some agitation. “This information of Mrs. West’s has given me a fresh impetus; and my father left her to me. She may yet be living; may be in poverty, for all we know, and unwilling to apply to us. Or,” she added, lowering her voice, “or if dead herself, she may have left a child or children. I must inquire of Mr. Carlton, Laura, in spite of your prejudices and your pride.”
“Inqui
re if you like,” returned Laura ungraciously. “You always seem to speak as if there were some dark mystery attaching to this business, apart from the bare loss of Clarice,” she continued, in a condemning sort of way.
“It invariably presents itself as a mystery to my own mind,” said Jane, and her tone certainly did sound gloomy enough as she spoke. “A mystery which I seem to shrink from. You know that little lame boy at Tupper’s cottage?”
“Well?” returned Laura, after a pause and a stare.
“I cannot divest myself of the idea that that child is Clarice’s.” Up started Lady Laura. Flinging from her knees a warm covering which had been placed there, she stamped up and down the room in excitement, forgetting her role of invalid.
“That child Clarice’s! For shame, Jane! That child is — is — yes, I will speak out! That child is Mr. Carlton’s.”
Jane sat, unable to speak, aghast at her vehemence; her words. “Mr. Carlton’s! Nay, Laura, I think it is you who should cry shame. What wild notion can have taken possession of you?” Laura, ten times more vehement, more excited than before, reiterated her assertion. She was in the midst of her tirade — directed against Mr. Carlton and mankind in general — when Judith came in. Laura, uncontrollable as was ever her father when overmastered by passion, seized the girl by the arm.
“You know that child at Tupper’s cottage, Judith? I have heard of Lady Jane sending you there. Who is he like?”
Judith stood in dismay. She tried to parry the question. Lady Laura shook her arm.
“My lady, it’s well known there’s no accounting for likenesses. Two people that never were within miles of each other in their lives may be alike.”
“Of course they may be,” sarcastically retorted Lady Laura. “Will you answer me, Judith?”
“And sometimes are,” interposed Jane with composure. “A likeness alone proves nothing. But you had better speak at once, Judith.”